“I’d thought of rooms in Gladstone Avenue,” Keith said, naming a fairly select quarter of the district. “I’ll be able to afford it. It won’t be the kind of dream-home we’d like, I’m afraid, but it’ll do for the time being. At least we’ll be to ourselves.”
“Which means everything,” Pat agreed, and added in a matter-of-fact tone, “When shall we get married?”
“I’m due for a rise in three months. How about then?”
Pat, whose thoughts were running on how quickly she could escape from her cage in the restaurant, nodded promptly.
“That’ll do fine! Can’t be too soon for me.”
They had come to the end of the road where her home stood. It was No. 18 Cypress Avenue—and No. 18 was one in a row of thirty identical houses, all with rough-cast frontages, bay windows up and down, and a brick garage at the side. All had front gardens somewhat larger than an economy label, and two grey stone gateposts. In every direction the iron gates had been replaced by wooden ones, hastily made.
“We’ll tell my folks now, I suppose?” Pat asked. “They’ll all be in.”
“Of course we’ll tell ’em.” There seemed to be no doubt in Keith’s mind.
At first Mrs. Taylor took the arrival of her daughter and Keith as a matter of course. Keith had been walking home with Pat for two months now and had been a frequent caller at weekends, so there was nothing phenomenal about his being here this evening. But, being an analyst when it came to expressions, Mrs. Taylor took about one minute to decide that something out of the ordinary had happened.
The large back living room was warm, the June sunlight partly blocked by half-drawn curtains. There was a homely untidiness about the place. Detective and crime magazines peeped out from surprising places; correspondence was wedged between the mantel clock and an empty decorated jar, which in better times had contained stem-ginger. On the chesterfield under the window Pat’s father, a big, powerful man with a quasi-bald head and large stomach, was lounging as he read the evening paper. At the laid table Pat’s brother Gregory was circumspectly dressed, playing about with a salad.
Into this setting came the air of the unexpected, and its emphasis became heavier as the moments passed.
“Is anything the matter, dear?” Mrs. Taylor asked finally.
Her uncertainty was obvious. She was a large, blonde woman with the enviable gift of seeming always happy. Blue-eyed, double-chinned, her girth was emphasized by the huge spotless apron she was wearing.
“Matter?” Pat repeated, putting down her handbag. “Why, no, of course not. We just walked home together, as usual.”
“Oh.…” Mrs. Taylor gave a frown, smiled, and then frowned again. “You look sort of—pent up. As though something’s going to explode.”
“We’re engaged!” Pat said suddenly, and thrust out her left hand as though it were a sword. “Look!”
The silence of the room was broken now by a variety of sounds. Mr. Taylor’s paper rustled as he lowered it to his paunch. He sat up and peered over his reading-glasses with sharp brown eyes. A clink came from Gregory’s plate as he put down his knife and fork. Mrs. Taylor breathed audibly.
“Well!” she exclaimed blankly. “Well! Engaged! Think of that—!” She swung to her husband. “You hear that, Harry?”
“By Jove, I do!” He surged up from the chesterfield and came lumbering across the room to grip Keith by one hand and Pat by the other. “Not that it’s unexpected,” he said, smiling. “Been developing for a long time, hasn’t it? I’ve noticed, you know. The very best of luck to both of you. Mmm, nice ring, too! That put you back a bit, my boy.”
“For Pat it’s worth it,” Keith responded, somewhat conventionally.
Mrs. Taylor added her congratulations, and Keith began to look as though he found the business somewhat overwhelming. Being on the small side, the size of his future parents-in-law seemed rather gargantuan to him. Then at last it was over. The vision of expansive shirt and even more expansive bosom cleared from before him and gave place to Gregory Taylor’s face. An unprepossessing face—cold and lantern-jawed.
“Congratulations!” Gregory Taylor said, and it sounded as though he had carefully considered even this one word. He was a solicitor’s clerk, as exact as an adding machine and just about as interesting. Though only twenty-nine, he looked fifty. Despite a shade temperature close on eighty-eight, he was neatly dressed in a complete suit with spotless collar and tie, and looked arctically cool. His eyes were a peculiar shade of light grey. His hair was so polished and flattened with vaseline it looked black, though actually was dark brown.
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic, Greg,” Pat commented dryly. “Or don’t you realize how important this is?”
“You mean to you, of course?” her brother asked. “I’m not marrying Keith.”
Pat hesitated. Gregory’s eyes fixed on her—then Mr. Taylor startled everybody by slapping his palms together.
“This calls for a drink!” he declared. “Gosh, what a lovely combination of circumstances! A hot day, and an engagement—both demanding a drink.… Mother, we’ve some port somewhere put aside for Christmas. Where is it?”
“In the cellar, dear. But what do we do for Christmas?”
“Buy some more, if we can.” Mr. Taylor grinned widely. “The cellar, eh? Right! Keith, my boy, you’re coming with me.”
“Eh? Where?” Keith looked surprised. “In the cellar?”
“Sure. Come on; I’ve something to say to you.”
Keith shrugged and left the room behind Mr. Taylor’s lumbering figure. Two strides took them across the hall to a door set in the side of the stairs. It was locked, a key projecting from it. Taylor turned the key, opened the door wide, and switched on the light at the top of a curving wooden staircase. He went down it briskly and Keith followed him. At the base of the stairs they came into the glow of the single electric bulb depending from a short flex.
Keith slowed to a halt, looking about him, whilst Mr. Taylor went to the copper and from inside it took out a bottle of wine. He considered it and chuckled hugely.
Absently Keith glanced around the cool, brick-walled, concrete-floored expanse. There was a rusty old wringer, a clothes-rope hanging on a nail, a chair without a back—and that was all. Mrs. Taylor preferred the depredations of a laundry to washing at home. The door that presumably led to a contiguous cellar had been screwed up. Nearly opposite the base of the staircase was an empty fireplace with rusty iron bars, and a wide old-fashioned type of chimney flue.
“Now, my lad.…”
Keith gave a start. He had been looking at a staple in a beam that crossed the ceiling. For a moment his thoughts had strayed to the time when hams had been plentiful.
“Just a word,” Mr. Taylor said, his round pink face full of good humour. “Just to tell you what I couldn’t tell you up there. I’m mighty glad you’re having Pat. Mighty glad! I’ve got an idea about fixing a surprise present for you both later on.” He squeezed Keith’s arm. “You’re just the right chap. Damnit, I’ve known your dad for years, haven’t I?”
“I’m glad you approve,” Keith said, smiling. “It’s an awkward moment announcing it. Pat was decent enough to do it for me.”
“That’s Pat all over! Always taking things on her own shoulders. Well, come on; they’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.”
When they returned to the living room they found that Mrs. Taylor had produced five wineglasses from the cupboard and was busy polishing them.
“It took