Miss Mole

The voice of her new friend, bidding her good night, followed Miss Hannah Mole as she went down the garden path, and the laurel bushes, as she brushed by them, repeated in a whisper, yet with a strange assurance, the persuasive invitation of Mrs. Gibson to come back soon.

“Yes, yes, I’ll come!” Hannah called out hurriedly and she glanced over her shoulder as the golden patch on the path disappeared. Mrs. Gibson had shut the front door: she had returned to the problems which ought never to have arisen in her respectable house, and Hannah, freed from the necessity for action, for the expression of sympathy and the giving of advice, was able to admire the skill she had shown in these activities, but first, because she was grateful by nature as well as appreciative of herself, she offered up thanks for the timely justification of her faith in the interest of life. That faith had been persistent though, latterly, it had demanded a dogged perseverance, and at the moment when she most needed encouragement it had been supplied. She would not ignore the creditable quickness with which she had grasped the opportunity offered; it was, indeed, only to those with seeing eyes and hearing ears that miracles were vouchsafed, and who but Hannah Mole, at her impact with Mrs. Gibson’s broad bosom, would have had the prescience to linger after her apology and give Mrs. Gibson time to recover her breath and explain why she stood outside her gate, bareheaded and in a flutter.

At this hour when it was too early for dinner and too late for tea, the shop was almost empty and a lady who was sitting in full view of the door and who started at Hannah’s entry, immediately repressed all signs of dismay and resigned herself to the impossibility of avoiding recognition. She laid down her knife and fork while Hannah, on her part, advanced with every appearance of enthusiasm.

“Lilla! What luck!” she exclaimed loudly, and then chuckled contentedly as her eyes, which were not quite brown, or green, or grey, surveyed all that was visible of the seated figure. “Just the same!” she murmured, and her large, amiable mouth was tilted at the corners. “If I’d pictured how you’d look if I met you⁠—but to tell the truth, Lilla, I haven’t been thinking of you lately⁠—I should have imagined you exactly as you are. That hat⁠—so suitably autumnal, but not wintry⁠—”

“For goodness’ sake, sit down Hannah, and lower your voice a little. What on earth are you doing here?”

Hannah sat down, and on the chair occupied by Mrs. Spenser-Smith’s elegant, monogrammed handbag, she placed her own shabby one, with a deliberate comparison of their values which made Lilla jerk her head irritably, but there was nothing envious in Hannah’s expression when she looked up.

“And your coat!” she went on. “It’s wonderful how your tailor eliminates that telltale thickness at the back of the middle-aged neck. But perhaps you haven’t got one. Anyhow, you look very nice and it’s a pleasure to see you.”

“I’ve nearly finished,” she heard Ruth saying, “I’m nearly ready for the burglar story.”

“It’s not a good one for this time of night.”

“Oh, Miss Mole, you said you liked him!”

“So I did, but then I’ve got queer tastes. And I’m afraid you’ve scamped your work.”

“But it’s such a chance⁠—when everybody’s out.”

“Oh well⁠—” Hannah said, hastily gathering her thoughts. “It was when I was living with an old lady who wore a wig. People without experience of wigs believe they simplify life. They think you just take them off and put them on. Nothing of the sort. A wig needs as much care as a pedigree Pekinese and I know, because I’ve looked after both. I lost a situation once because a woman heard me telling her nasty little dog what I really thought of it, but it did me good, and the dog too, I daresay. Well, anyhow, this old lady had a wig, in fact she had two, because they had to be sent to the hairdresser, now and then, to be tidied up, and they were bright gold. She was rich, and I suppose she liked the colour. But she wasn’t a bad old woman. I was fond of her. Well, one night⁠—it was a lonely house, simply asking for burglars to walk into it⁠—and I ought to have told you that one of the wigs had come back from the hairdresser that very evening, in a registered parcel, and I’d left it, unopened, on the landing table where the bedroom candles were put. It was that kind of house.”

Robert Corder made a handsome figure, standing on the hearthrug, with his head thrown back and some of the urbanity, fit for a visit to the Spenser-Smiths’, still beaming from him, and at the sight of him, Hannah’s faith in her resolutions failed her. She could deal with hysteria, she could help those she pitied, but, in the presence of this man, could she sustain her character of industrious nonentity? Something alive seemed to turn in her breast. It was the demon of mischief who lay there; he was stretching himself in lazy preparation for action and, if she was not careful, he would presently express himself in speech. Perhaps, she thought, a little, a very little, liberty would be good for him: if she kept him too quiet, he would suddenly get out of control, and there would be an end to her high endeavours for the family. The best thing, she decided swiftly, was to be natural: that would satisfy the demon and it was the golden rule for manners, but if she obeyed it at this moment, she would throw the teapot at Mr. Corder’s head. She had had a tiring day and he stood there, like a large, healthy animal waiting to be fed, and made no movement to relieve her of the tray.

“If you would kindly take those books off the table,” she said politely, “I shall be able to put this down.”

He looked at his watch before he obliged her. “Half-past ten,” he said.

“Is that all?” Hannah said pleasantly. “I thought it was about eleven,” and before he had time to make one of the several retorts that must have occurred to him, she exclaimed, “And now I’ve forgotten the biscuits!”

“The Christmas puddings are ready for stirring,” Hannah said to him on one of these occasions. “Will you have your stir now?”

“My stir?”

“Everybody has to stir, for luck.”

Doris turned aside with a giggle. She was embarrassed by the presence of the minister in the kitchen and by Miss Mole’s airy way with him, and Robert Corder, interpreting this sound correctly and reacting to it immediately, took the opportunity to prove his essential homeliness. He stirred manfully, circling the wooden spoon through the unwieldy mixture and an unmistakable scent, very pleasant but forbidden, rose to his nostrils.

“I hope there is no brandy in it,” he said seriously.

Miss Mole looked disappointed. “I know some people prefer beer,” she said, “but I think brandy’s better. I ought to have asked you.”

He dropped the spoon. “But Miss Mole, you must know we never have intoxicants in this house, and I happen to be the president of the Radstowe Temperance Society.”

“Does it count,” she asked meekly, “when it’s cooked and in a pudding? I’m so sorry. What can we do about it? I can’t possibly eat all these puddings by myself.”

“Waste would only be an aggravation of the mistake,” he said sharply, “but, another time, Miss Mole⁠ ⁠…”

He went away, very much disturbed. Surely the woman could not be as simple as she seemed, and if she was not, what was she?