Sons and Lovers (Barnes & Noble Classics - D. H. Lawrence [58]
“‘Please send by return two pairs grey thread stockings without toes.’”
“Well,” flashed Paul, “‘doigts’ means ‘fingers’—as well—as a rule—”
The little man looked at him. He did not know whether “doigts” meant “fingers”; he knew that for all his purposes it meant “toes.”
“Fingers to stockings!” he snapped.
“Well, it does mean fingers,” the boy persisted.
He hated the little man, who made such a clod of him. Mr. Jordan looked at the pale, stupid, defiant boy, then at the mother, who sat quiet and with that peculiar shut-off look of the poor who have to depend on the favour of others.
“And when could he come?” he asked.
“Well,” said Mrs. Morel, “as soon as you wish. He has finished school now.”
“He would live in Bestwood?”
“Yes; but he could be in—at the station—at quarter to eight.”
“H’m!”
It ended by Paul’s being engaged as junior spiral clerk at eight shillings a week. The boy did not open his mouth to say another word, after having insisted that “doigts” meant “fingers.” He followed his mother down the stairs. She looked at him with her bright blue eyes full of love and joy.
“I think you’ll like it,” she said.
“‘Doigts’ does mean ‘fingers,’ mother, and it was the writing. I couldn’t read the writing.”
“Never mind, my boy. I’m sure he’ll be all right, and you won’t see much of him. Wasn’t that first young fellow nice? I’m sure you’ll like them.”
“But wasn’t Mr. Jordan common, mother? Does he own it all?”
“I suppose he was a workman who has got on,” she said. “You mustn’t mind people so much. They’re not being disagreeable to you—it’s their way. You always think people are meaning things for you. But they don’t.”
It was very sunny. Over the big desolate space of the marketplace the blue sky shimmered, and the granite cobbles of the paving glistened. Shops down the Long Row were deep in obscurity, and the shadow was full of colour. Just where the horse trams trundled across the market was a row of fruit stalls, with fruit blazing in the sun—apples and piles of reddish oranges, small greengage plums and bananas. There was a warm scent of fruit as mother and son passed. Gradually his feeling of ignominy and of rage sank.
“Where should we go for dinner?” asked the mother.
It was felt to be a reckless extravagance. Paul had only been in an eating-house once or twice in his life, and then only to have a cup of tea and a bun. Most of the people of Bestwood considered that tea and bread-and-butter, and perhaps potted beef, was all they could afford to eat in Nottingham. Real cooked dinner was considered great extravagance. Paul felt rather guilty.
They found a place that looked quite cheap. But when Mrs. Morel scanned the bill of fare, her heart was heavy, things were so dear. So she ordered kidney-pies and potatoes as the cheapest available dish.
“We oughtn’t to have come here, mother,” said Paul.
“Never mind,” she said. “We won’t come again.”
She insisted on his having a small currant tart, because he liked sweets.
“I don’t want it, mother,” he pleaded.
“Yes,” she insisted; “you’ll have it.”
And she looked round for the waitress. But the waitress was busy, and Mrs. Morel did not like to bother her then. So the mother and son waited for the girl’s pleasure, whilst she flirted among the men.
“Brazen hussy!” said Mrs. Morel to Paul. “Look now, she’s taking that man his pudding, and he came-long after us.”
“It doesn’t matter, mother,” said Paul.
Mrs. Morel was angry. But she was too poor, and her orders were too meagre, so that she had not the courage to insist on her rights just then. They waited and waited.
“Should we go, mother?” he said.
Then Mrs. Morel stood up. The girl was passing near.
“Will you bring one currant tart?” said Mrs. Morel clearly.
The girl looked round insolently.
“Directly,” she said.
“We have waited quite long enough,” said Mrs. Morel.
In a moment the girl came back with the tart. Mrs. Morel asked coldly for the bill. Paul wanted to sink through the floor. He marvelled at his mother