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The Matador Of The Five Towns
by [?]


Mrs Brindeley looked across the lunch-table at her husband with glinting, eager eyes, which showed that there was something unusual in the brain behind them.

“Bob,” she said, factitiously calm. “You don’t know what I’ve just remembered!”

“Well?” said he.

“It’s only grandma’s birthday to-day!”

My friend Robert Brindley, the architect, struck the table with a violent fist, making his little boys blink, and then he said quietly:

The deuce!”

I gathered that grandmamma’s birthday had been forgotten and that it was not a festival that could be neglected with impunity. Both Mr and Mrs Brindley had evidently a humorous appreciation of crises, contretemps, and those collisions of circumstances which are usually called “junctures” for short. I could have imagined either of them saying to the other: “Here’s a funny thing! The house is on fire!” And then yielding to laughter as they ran for buckets. Mrs Brindley, in particular, laughed now; she gazed at the table-cloth and laughed almost silently to herself; though it appeared that their joint forgetfulness might result in temporary estrangement from a venerable ancestor who was also, birthdays being duly observed, a continual fount of rich presents in specie.

Robert Brindley drew a time-table from his breast-pocket with the rapid gesture of habit. All men of business in the Five Towns seem to carry that time-table in their breast-pockets. Then he examined his watch carefully.

“You’ll have time to dress up your progeny and catch the 2.5. It makes the connection at Knype for Axe.”

The two little boys, aged perhaps four and six, who had been ladling the messy contents of specially deep plates on to their bibs, dropped their spoons and began to babble about grea’-granny, and one of them insisted several times that he must wear his new gaiters.

“Yes,” said Mrs Brindley to her husband, after reflection. “And a fine old crowd there’ll be in the train–with this football match!”

“Can’t be helped!… Now, you kids, hook it upstairs to nurse.”

“And what about you?” asked Mrs Brindley.

“You must tell the old lady I’m kept by business.”

“I told her that last year, and you know what happened.”

“Well,” said Brindley. “Here Loring’s just come. You don’t expect me to leave him, do you? Or have you had the beautiful idea of taking him over to Axe to pass a pleasant Saturday afternoon with your esteemed grandmother?”

“No,” said Mrs Brindley. “Hardly that!”

“Well, then?”

The boys, having first revolved on their axes, slid down from their high chairs as though from horses.

“Look here,” I said. “You mustn’t mind me. I shall be all right.”

“Ha-ha!” shouted Brindley. “I seem to see you turned loose alone in this amusing town on a winter afternoon. I seem to see you!”

“I could stop in and read,” I said, eyeing the multitudinous books on every wall of the dining-room. The house was dadoed throughout with books.

“Rot!” said Brindley.

This was only my third visit to his home and to the Five Towns, but he and I had already become curiously intimate. My first two visits had been occasioned by official pilgrimages as a British Museum expert in ceramics. The third was for a purely friendly week-end, and had no pretext. The fact is, I was drawn to the astonishing district and its astonishing inhabitants. The Five Towns, to me, was like the East to those who have smelt the East: it “called.”

“I’ll tell you what we could do,” said Mrs Brindley. “We could put him on to Dr Stirling.”

“So we could!” Brindley agreed. “Wife, this is one of your bright, intelligent days. We’ll put you on to the doctor, Loring. I’ll impress on him that he must keep you constantly amused till I get back, which I fear it won’t be early. This is what we call manners, you know–to invite a fellow-creature to travel a hundred and fifty miles to spend two days here, and then to turn him out before he’s been in the house an hour. It’s us, that is! But the truth of the matter is, the birthday business might be a bit serious. It might easily cost me fifty quid and no end of diplomacy. If you were a married man you’d know that the ten plagues of Egypt are simply nothing in comparison with your wife’s relations. And she’s over eighty, the old lady.”