IVictoria Jones was sitting moodily1 on a seat in FitzJames Gardens. She waswholly given up to reflections—or one might almost say moralizations—on the disadvantages inherent in employing one’s particular talents at thewrong moment.
Victoria was like most of us, a girl with both qualities and defects. Onthe credit side she was generous, warmhearted and courageous2. Her nat-ural leaning towards adventure may be regarded as either meritorious3 orthe reverse in this modern age which places the value of security high.
Her principal defect was a tendency to tell lies at both opportune4 and in-opportune moments. The superior fascination5 of fiction to fact was alwaysirresistible to Victoria. She lied with fluency6, ease, and artistic7 fervour. IfVictoria was late for an appointment (which was often the case) it was notsufficient for her to murmur8 an excuse of her watch having stopped(which actually was quite often the case) or of an unaccountably delayedbus. It would appear preferable to Victoria to tender the mendacious9 ex-planation that she had been hindered by an escaped elephant lying acrossa main bus route, or by a thrilling smash-and-grab raid in which she her-self had played a part to aid the police. To Victoria an agreeable worldwould be one where tigers lurked10 in the Strand11 and dangerous bandits in-fested Tooting.
A slender girl, with an agreeable figure and first-class legs, Victoria’s fea-tures might actually have been described as plain. They were small andneat. But there was a piquancy12 about her, for “little indiarubber face,” asone of her admirers had named her, could twist those immobile featuresinto a startling mimicry13 of almost anybody.
It was this last-named talent that had led to her present predicament.
Employed as a typist by Mr. Greenholtz of Greenholtz, Simmons andLederbetter, of Graysholme Street, WC2, Victoria had been whiling away adull morning by entertaining the three other typists and the office boywith a vivid performance of Mrs. Greenholtz paying a visit to her hus-band’s office. Secure in the knowledge that Mr. Greenholtz had goneround to his solicitors14, Victoria let herself go.
“Why do you say we not have that Knole settee, Daddee?” she demandedin a high whining15 voice. “Mrs. Dievtakis she have one in electric bluesatin. You say it is money that is tight? But then why you take that blondegirl out dining and dancing—Ah! you think I do not know—and if you takethat girl—then I have a settee and all done plum-coloured and gold cush-ions. And when you say it is a business dinner you are a damn’ fool—yes—and come back with lipstick16 on your shirt. So I have the Knole settee and Iorder a fur cape—very nice—all like mink17 but not really mink and I gethim very cheap and it is good business—”
The sudden failure of her audience—at first entranced, but now sud-denly resuming work with spontaneous agreement, caused Victoria tobreak off and swing round to where Mr. Greenholtz was standing18 in thedoorway observing her.
Victoria, unable to think of anything relevant to say, merely said, “Oh!”
Mr. Greenholtz grunted19.
Flinging off his overcoat, Mr. Greenholtz proceeded to his private officeand banged the door. Almost immediately his buzzer20 sounded, two shortsand a long. That was a summons for Victoria.
“It’s for you, Jonesey,” a colleague remarked unnecessarily, her eyesalight with the pleasure occasioned by the misfortunes of others. Theother typists collaborated21 in this sentiment by ejaculating: “You’re for it,Jones,” and “On the mat, Jonesey.” The office boy, an unpleasant child,contented himself with drawing a forefinger22 across his throat and utteringa sinister23 noise.
Victoria picked up her notebook and pencil and sailed into Mr. Green-holtz’s office with such assurance as she could muster24.
“You want me, Mr. Greenholtz?” she murmured, fixing a limpid25 gaze onhim.
Mr. Greenholtz was rustling26 three pound notes and searching his pock-ets for coin of the realm.
“So there you are,” he observed. “I’ve had about enough of you, younglady. Do you see any particular reason why I shouldn’t pay you a week’ssalary in lieu of notice and pack you off here and now?”
Victoria (an orphan) had just opened her mouth to explain how theplight of a mother at this moment suffering a major operation had so de-moralized her that she had become completely light-headed, and how hersmall salary was all the aforesaid mother had to depend upon, when, tak-ing an opening glance at Mr. Greenholtz’s unwholesome face, she shut hermouth and changed her mind.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” she said heartily27 and pleasantly. “Ithink you’re absolutely right, if you know what I mean.”
Mr. Greenholtz appeared slightly taken aback. He was not used to hav-ing his dismissals treated in this approving and congratulatory spirit. Toconceal a slight discomfiture28 he sorted through a pile of coins on the deskin front of him. He then sought once more in his pockets.
“Ninepence short,” he murmured gloomily.
“Never mind,” said Victoria kindly29. “Take yourself to the pictures orspend it on sweets.”
“Don’t seem to have any stamps, either.”
“It doesn’t matter. I never write letters.”
“I could send it after you,” said Mr. Greenholtz but without much con-viction.
“Don’t bother. What about a reference?” said Victoria.
Mr. Greenholtz’s choler returned.
“Why the hell should I give you a reference?” he demanded wrathfully.
“It’s usual,” said Victoria.
Mr. Greenholtz drew a piece of paper towards him and scrawled30 a fewlines. He shoved it towards her.
“That do for you?”
Miss Jones has been with me two months as a shorthandtypist. Her shorthand is inaccurate31 and she cannot spell.
She is leaving owing to wasting time in office hours.
Victoria made a grimace32.
“Hardly a recommendation,” she observed.
“It wasn’t meant to be,” said Mr. Greenholtz.
“I think,” said Victoria, “that you ought at least to say I’m honest, soberand respectable. I am, you know. And perhaps you might add that I’m dis-creet.”
“Discreet?” barked Mr. Greenholtz.
Victoria met his gaze with an innocent stare.
“Discreet,” she said gently.
Remembering sundry33 letters taken down and typed by Victoria, Mr.
Greenholtz decided34 that prudence35 was the better part of rancour.
He snatched back the paper, tore it up and indited36 a fresh one.
Miss Jones has been with me for two months as a short-hand typist. She is leaving owing to redundancy of officestaff.
“How about that?”
“It could be better,” said Victoria, “but it will do.”
II
So it was that with a week’s salary (less ninepence) in her bag Victoriawas sitting in meditation37 upon a bench in FitzJames Gardens which are atriangular plantation38 of rather sad shrubs39 flanking a church and over-looked by a tall warehouse40.
It was Victoria’s habit on any day when it was not actually raining topurchase one cheese, and one lettuce41 and tomato sandwich at a milk barand eat this simple lunch in these pseudorural surroundings.
Today, as she munched42 meditatively43, she was telling herself, not for thefirst time, that there was a time and place for everything—and that the of-fice was definitely not the place for imitations of the boss’s wife. She must,in future, curb44 the natural exuberance45 that led her to brighten up the per-formance of a dull job. In the meantime, she was free of Greenholtz, Sim-mons and Lederbetter, and the prospect46 of obtaining a situation elsewherefilled her with pleasurable anticipation47. Victoria was always delightedwhen she was about to take up a new job. One never knew, she alwaysfelt, what might happen.
She had just distributed the last crumb48 of bread to three attentive49 spar-rows who immediately fought each other with fury for it, when she be-came aware of a young man sitting at the other end of the seat. Victoriahad noticed him vaguely50 already, but her mind full of good resolutions forthe future, she had not observed him closely until now. What she now saw(out of the corner of her eye) she liked very much. He was a good-lookingyoung man, cherubically fair, but with a firm chin and extremely blueeyes which had been, she rather imagined, examining her with covert51 ad-miration for some time.
Victoria had no inhibitions about making friends with strange youngmen in public places. She considered herself an excellent judge of charac-ter and well able to check any manifestations52 of freshness on the part ofunattached males.
She proceeded to smile frankly53 at him and the young man respondedlike a marionette54 when you pull the string.
“Hallo,” said the young man. “Nice place this. Do you often come here?”
“Nearly every day.”
“Just my luck that I never came here before. Was that your lunch youwere eating?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think you eat enough. I’d be starving if I only had two sand-wiches. What about coming along and having a sausage at the SPO in Tot-tenham Court Road?”
“No thanks. I’m quite all right. I couldn’t eat anymore now.”
She rather expected that he would say: “Another day,” but he did not.
He merely sighed—then he said:
“My name’s Edward, what’s yours?”
“Victoria.”
“Why did your people want to call you after a railway station?”
“Victoria isn’t only a railway station,” Miss Jones pointed55 out. “There’sQueen Victoria as well.”
“Mm yes. What’s your other name?”
“Jones.”
“Victoria Jones,” said Edward, trying it over on his tongue. He shook hishead. “They don’t go together.”
“You’re quite right,” said Victoria with feeling. “If I were Jenny it wouldbe rather nice—Jenny Jones. But Victoria needs something with a bit moreclass to it. Victoria Sackville-West for instance. That’s the kind of thing oneneeds. Something to roll round the mouth.”
“You could tack56 something on to the Jones,” said Edward with sympath-etic interest.
“Bedford Jones.”
“Carisbrooke Jones.”
“St. Clair Jones.”
“Lonsdale Jones.”
This agreeable game was interrupted by Edward’s glancing at his watchand uttering a horrified57 ejaculation.
“I must tear back to my blinking boss—er—what about you?”
“I’m out of a job. I was sacked this morning.”
“Oh I say, I am sorry,” said Edward with real concern.
“Well, don’t waste sympathy, because I’m not sorry at all. For one thing,I’ll easily get another job, and besides that, it was really rather fun.”
And delaying Edward’s return to duty still further, she gave him a spir-ited rendering58 of this morning’s scene, reenacting her impersonation ofMrs. Greenholtz to Edward’s immense enjoyment59.
“You really are marvellous, Victoria,” he said. “You ought to be on thestage.”
Victoria accepted this tribute with a gratified smile and remarked thatEdward had better be running along if he didn’t want to get the sack him-self.
“Yes—and I shouldn’t get another job as easily as you will. It must bewonderful to be a good shorthand typist,” said Edward with envy in hisvoice.
“Well, actually I’m not a good shorthand typist,” Victoria admittedfrankly, “but fortunately even the lousiest of shorthand typists can getsome sort of a job nowadays—at any rate an educational or charitable one—they can’t afford to pay much and so they get people like me. I prefer thelearned type of job best. These scientific names and terms are so frightfulanyway that if you can’t spell them properly it doesn’t really shame youbecause nobody could. What’s your job? I suppose you’re out of one of theservices. RAF?”
“Good guess.”
“Fighter pilot?”
“Right again. They’re awfully60 decent about getting us jobs and all that,but you see, the trouble is, that we’re not particularly brainy. I mean onedidn’t need to be brainy in the RAF. They put me in an office with a lot offiles and figures and some thinking to do and I just folded up. The wholething seemed utterly61 purposeless anyway. But there it is. It gets you downa bit to know that you’re absolutely no good.”
Victoria nodded sympathetically—Edward went on bitterly:
“Out of touch. Not in the picture anymore. It was all right during thewar—one could keep one’s end up all right—I got the DFC for instance—but now—well, I might as well write myself off the map.”
“But there ought to be—”
Victoria broke off. She felt unable to put into words her conviction thatthose qualities that brought a DFC to their owner should somewhere havetheir appointed place in the world of 1950.
“It’s got me down, rather,” said Edward. “Being no good at anything, Imean. Well—I’d better be pushing off—I say—would you mind—would itbe most awful cheek—if I only could—”
As Victoria opened surprised eyes, stammering62 and blushing, Edwardproduced a small camera.
“I would like so awfully to have a snapshot of you. You see, I’m going toBaghdad tomorrow.”
“To Baghdad?” exclaimed Victoria with lively disappointment.
“Yes. I mean I wish I wasn’t—now. Earlier this morning I was quitebucked about it—it’s why I took this job really—to get out of this country.”
“What sort of job is it?”
“Pretty awful. Culture—poetry, all that sort of thing. A Dr. Rathbone’smy boss. Strings63 of letters after his name, peers at you soulfully throughpince-nez. He’s terrifically keen on uplift and spreading it far and wide.
He opens bookshops in remote places—he’s starting one in Baghdad. Hegets Shakespeare’s and Milton’s works translated into Arabic and Kurdishand Persian and Armenian and has them all on tap. Silly, I think, becauseyou’ve got the British Council doing much the same thing all over theplace. Still, there it is. It gives me a job so I oughtn’t to complain.”
“What do you actually do?” asked Victoria.
“Well, really it boils down to being the old boy’s personal Yesman andDogsbody. Buy the tickets, make the reservations, fill up the passportforms, check the packing of all the horrid64 little poetic65 manuals, run roundhere, there, and everywhere. Then, when we get out there I’m supposed tofraternize—kind of glorified66 youth movement—all nations together in aunited drive for uplift.” Edward’s tone became more and more melan-choly. “Frankly, it’s pretty ghastly, isn’t it?”
Victoria was unable to administer much comfort.
“So you see,” said Edward, “if you wouldn’t mind awfully—one sidewaysand one looking right at me—oh I say, that’s wonderful—”
The camera clicked twice and Victoria showed that purring compla-cence displayed by young women who know they have made an impres-sion on an attractive member of the opposite sex.
“But it’s pretty foul67 really, having to go off just when I’ve met you,” saidEdward. “I’ve half a mind to chuck it—but I suppose I couldn’t do that atthe last moment — not after all those ghastly forms and visas andeverything. Wouldn’t be a very good show, what?”
“It mayn’t turn out as bad as you think,” said Victoria consolingly.
“N-no,” said Edward doubtfully. “The funny thing is,” he added, “thatI’ve got a feeling there’s something fishy68 somewhere.”
“Fishy?”
“Yes. Bogus. Don’t ask me why. I haven’t any reason. Sort of feeling onegets sometimes. Had it once about my port oil. Began fussing about thedamned thing and sure enough there was a washer wedged in the sparegear pump.”
The technical terms in which this was couched made it quite unintelli-gible to Victoria, but she got the main idea.
“You think he’s bogus—Rathbone?”
“Don’t see how he can be. I mean he’s frightfully respectable andlearned and belongs to all these societies—and sort of hobnobs with Arch-bishops and Principals of Colleges. No, it’s just a feeling—well, time willshow. So long. I wish you were coming, too.”
“So do I,” said Victoria.
“What are you going to do?”
“Go round to St. Guildric’s Agency in Gower Street and look for anotherjob,” said Victoria gloomily.
“Good-bye, Victoria. Partir, say mourir un peu,” added Edward with avery British accent. “These French johnnies know their stuff. Our Englishchaps just maunder on about parting being a sweet sorrow—silly asses69.”
“Good-bye, Edward, good luck.”
“I don’t suppose you’ll ever think about me again.”
“Yes, I shall.”
“You’re absolutely different from any girl I’ve ever seen before—I onlywish—” The clock chimed a quarter, and Edward said, “Oh hell—I must fly—”
Retreating rapidly, he was swallowed up by the great maw of London.
Victoria remaining behind on her seat absorbed in meditation was con-scious of two distinct streams of thought.
One dealt with the theme of Romeo and Juliet. She and Edward, she felt,were somewhat in the position of that unhappy couple, although perhapsRomeo and Juliet had expressed their feelings in rather more high-classlanguage. But the position, Victoria thought, was the same. Meeting, in-stant attraction—frustration—two fond hearts thrust asunder70. A remem-brance of a rhyme once frequently recited by her old nurse came to hermind:
Jumbo said to Alice I love you,
Alice said to Jumbo I don’t believe you do,
If you really loved me as you say you do
You wouldn’t go to America and leave me in the Zoo.
Substitute Baghdad for America and there you were!
Victoria rose at last, dusting crumbs71 from her lap, and walked brisklyout of FitzJames Gardens in the direction of Gower Street. Victoria hadcome to two decisions: the first was that (like Juliet) she loved this youngman, and meant to have him.
The second decision that Victoria had come to was that as Edwardwould shortly be in Baghdad, the only thing to do was for her to go toBaghdad also. What was now occupying her mind was how this could beaccomplished. That it could be accomplished72 somehow or other, Victoriadid not doubt. She was a young woman of optimism and force of charac-ter.
Parting is such sweet sorrow appealed to her as a sentiment no more thanit did to Edward.
“Somehow,” said Victoria to herself, “I’ve got to get to Baghdad!”
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1
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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piquancy
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| n.辛辣，辣味，痛快 | |
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mimicry
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| n.（生物）拟态，模仿 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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mink
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| n.貂，貂皮 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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collaborated
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| 合作( collaborate的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾结叛国 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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limpid
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meditation
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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lettuce
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| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
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munched
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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52
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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marionette
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| n.木偶 | |
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55
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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60
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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63
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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64
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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