Stories of the Strange and Sinister (Valancourt 20th Century Classics) by Frank Baker Read Free Book Online Page A

And I can promise you the time of your life, and every comfort. And you can warble in eighteen different keys at once. How about it?’
    ‘About what? I don’t understand.’
    ‘The show business, Miss Ponsonby. Easy money and no more persecution from neighbours!’
    ‘The show business? You mean – ’
    ‘I mean – money, a friend of mine runs a travelling joint – what some people call a Fair but what I prefer to call a – ’
    She suddenly gave a pathetic little shriek. At that moment Barley entered with the tea.
    ‘Oh no, no,’ cried Polly. Her words seemed to torture her. The veins in her throat bulged. Her tiny nose twitched and her fingers fumbled clumsily at her dress. ‘How dreadful – how dreadful of you!’ Stumbling out of the room she went upstairs. They heard her lock the door of her bedroom.
    ‘Now you’ve dished it,’ said Barley.
    ‘Not on your life. She’ll come round to the idea. But, blast me, I wish the old eagle would pipe up a bit. I’ve only got your word that she can sing at all.’
    Not a sound came from upstairs. Barley went up, tried the door, knocked, begged Polly to let her in. Not a sound. Going down, the brother and sister sipped cups of tea and crumbled some of Polly’s seed-cake on their blue-ringed plates.
    ‘I’m horribly worried, Rye,’ said Barley. ‘I didn’t have time to tell you. This morning old Mrs Jackson who lives opposite said to me that everybody agreed it would be kinder to send her away somewhere. They get tired of the crowds round here, you see. But she’s not dotty, I’m quite sure she’s not.’
    ‘You wait. I’ll catch her. We’ll make a pile out of this, old dear.’
    ‘Oh, Rye, it doesn’t seem fair.’
    ‘Why not? If it’s going to save her from a padded cell?’
    But he never did catch her. All the rest of that evening no sound at all came from upstairs. About nine, Rye got tired of waiting and went round to the Talma for a quick one. Chatting there to some of the regulars, old Sydenham folk who had known Polly’s father and always had great respect for Polly herself, what Barley had feared was confirmed by them. They all spoke sadly of her, as though it were only a matter of days before she would have to be put away. ‘But why – why?’ argued Rye angrily, thumping his fist on the counter. ‘What the devil’s wrong with the old lady?’
    ‘It ain’t right nor proper,’ said one, ‘for a lady to go on singing in the street. It upsets people, for one thing. And it ain’t human, not that sound, not human at all.’
    More and more he longed to hear her sing. But when he went back to the cottage, she was still upstairs, and not a single note had escaped from her lips since his absence.
    Gloomily, Rye picked up the precious family flute and lingered the pistons. ‘I’ve offended her, that’s what it is,’ he said. ‘Curse myself for being so impatient. I should have got her to sing first, then, bit by bit, worked the idea into her head. I know she’d be happy once she was on the road with the gang. There’s a bearded female who’s an absolute duck. She and Polly would chum up in no time. It’s only because she’s got false ideas of what’s respectable. You’ll have to bring her to it, Barley. Otherwise she’s for it.’
    ‘Not if she goes on like this,’ said Barley, ‘silent as night up there. It frightens me, Rye. I kind of feel I don’t like being left alone with her any more.’
    ‘Well, I’ve got to be back to-night, old dear. Business in Petticoat Lane at crack of dawn. Wire me if anything begins to happen. I’ll be down like a shot.’
    He put the mouthpiece of the flute to his lips and tried to blow a note from it. ‘Might encourage her,’ he said.
    But he couldn’t get a sound from it, however hard he tried. Screwing his lips to a thin crack, he went redder in the face, blowing for all his might.
    Suddenly a door upstairs was hurled open, there were stumbling footsteps down the stairs, and Polly