As he came near the little market-place he bethought
himself of the Christmas-tree candles. He did
not intend to trouble himself. And yet, when
he glanced in passing into the sweet-shop window, and
saw it bare as a board, the very fact that he probably
could not buy the things made him hesitate,
and try.
“Have you got any Christmas-tree candles?”
he asked as he entered the shop.
“How many do you want?”
“A dozen.”
“Can’t let you have a dozen. You
can have two boxes—four in a box—
eight. Six-pence a box.”
“Got any holders?”
“Holders? Don’t ask. Haven’t
seen one this year.”
“Got any toffee—?”
“Cough-drops—two-pence an ounce—nothing
else left.”
“Give me four ounces.”
He watched her weighing them in the little brass scales.
“You’ve not got much of a Christmas show,”
he said.
“Don’t talk about Christmas, as far as
sweets is concerned. They ought to have allowed
us six times the quantity—there’s
plenty of sugar, why didn’t they? We s’ll
have to enjoy ourselves with what we’ve got.
We mean to, anyhow.”
“Ay,” he said.
“Time we had a bit of enjoyment, this Christmas.
They ought to have made things more plentiful.”
“Yes,” he said, stuffing his package in
his pocket.
ROYAL OAK
The war had killed the little market of the town.
As he passed the market place on the brow, Aaron
noticed that there were only two miserable stalls.
But people crowded just the same. There was
a loud sound of voices, men’s voices.
Men pressed round the doorways of the public-houses.
But he was going to a pub out of town. He descended
the dark hill. A street-lamp here and there shed
parsimonious light. In the bottoms, under the
trees, it was very dark. But a lamp glimmered
in front of the “Royal Oak.” This
was a low white house sunk three steps below the highway.
It was darkened, but sounded crowded.
Opening the door, Sisson found himself in the stone
passage. Old Bob, carrying three cans, stopped
to see who had entered—then went on into
the public bar on the left. The bar itself was
a sort of little window-sill on the right: the
pub was a small one. In this window-opening
stood the landlady, drawing and serving to her husband.
Behind the bar was a tiny parlour or den, the landlady’s
preserve.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, bobbing
down to look at the newcomer. None entered her
bar-parlour unless invited.
“Come in,” said the landlady. There
was a peculiar intonation in her complacent voice,
which showed she had been expecting him, a little
irritably.
He went across into her bar-parlour. It would
not hold more than eight or ten people, all told—just
the benches along the walls, the fire between—and
two little round tables.
