Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs. Harris Goes to New York (5 page)

‘Going to take a plunge are you, dearie?’ queried Mrs Butterfield. ‘I don’t mind a night out meself. ’Ow’re you coming on with your savings?’

The excitement under which she was labouring made Mrs Harris’s voice hoarse. ‘I’ve got two hundred and fifty quid laid away. If I could double it, I’d have me dress next week.’

‘Double it or lose it, dearie?’ said Mrs Butterfield, the confirmed pessimist, who enjoyed looking upon the darker side of life.

‘I’ve a ’unch,’ whispered Mrs Harris. ‘Come on then, the treat’s on me.’

Indeed, to Mrs Harris it seemed almost more than a hunch - in fact, like a message from Above. She had awakened that morning with the feeling that the day was most propitious, and that her God was looking down upon her with a friendly and cooperative eye.

Mrs Harris’s Deity had been acquired at Sunday school at an early age, and had never changed in her mind from a Being who combined the characteristics of a nannie, a policeman, a magistrate, and Santa Claus, an Omnipotence of many moods, who was at all times concerned with Mrs Harris’s business. She could always tell which phase was uppermost in the Almighty by what was happening to her. She accepted her punishments from Above when she had been naughty without quibbling, as she would have accepted a verdict from the Bench. Likewise, when she was good, she expected rewards; when she was in distress she asked for assistance, and expected service; when things went well she was always prepared to share the credit with the Good Lord. Jehovah was a personal friend and protector, yet she was also a little wary of Him, as she might be of an elderly gentleman who occasionally went into fits of inexplicable tantrums.

That morning when she was awakened by the feeling that something wonderful was about to happen to her, she was convinced it could only have to do with her desire to own the dress, and that on this occasion she was to be brought nearer to the fulfilment of her wishes.

All that day at her work she had attuned herself to receive further communications as to what form the expected bounty would take. When she arrived at the flat of Miss Pamela Penrose to cope with the usual mess of untidiness left by the struggling actress, a copy of the
Evening Standard
was lying on the floor, and as she glanced at it she saw that the dogs
were running at White City that evening. That was it! The message had been delivered and received. Thereafter there was nothing to do but to find the right dog, the right price, collect her winnings, and be off to Paris.

Neither Mrs Harris nor Mrs Butterfield was a stranger to the paradise that was White City, but that night the
mise
en scène
that otherwise would have enthralled them - the oval track outlined in electric light, the rush and roar of the mechanical hare, the pulsating ribbon of the dogs streaming behind in its wake, the bustling crowds in the betting queues and the packed stands - was no more than the means to an end. Mrs Butterfield too, by this time, had caught the fever, and went waddling in Mrs Harris’s wake from track to stands and back again without protest. They did not even pause for a cup of tea and a sausage at the refreshment room, so intent were they upon attuning themselves to the work in hand.

They searched the race cards for clues, they examined the long, thin, stringy animals, they kept their ears flapping for possible titbits of information, and it was this last precaution that eventually yielded results - results of such stunning portent that there could be no question of either authenticity or outcome.

Crushed in the crowd at the paddock where the entrants for the fourth race were being paraded, Mrs Harris listened to the conversation of two sporty-looking gentlemen standing just beside them.

The first gentleman was engaged in digging into his ear with his little finger and studying his card at the same time. ‘Haute Couture, that’s the one.’

The other gentleman, who was conducting similar operations on his nose, glanced sharply along the line of dogs and said: ‘Number six. What the devil does “Haut Coutourie” mean?’

The first gentleman was knowledgeable. ‘She’s a French bitch,’ he said, consulting his card again, ‘owned by Marcel Duval. I dunno - ain’t Haute Couture got something to do with dressmaking, or something like that?’

Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield felt cold chills run down their spines as they turned and looked at one another. There was no question, this was it. They stared at their cards, and sure enough there was the name of the dog, ‘Haute Couture’, and her French owner, and some of her record. A glance at the board showed them that her price was five to one.

‘Come along,’ cried Mrs Harris, making for the betting windows. She, like a tiny destroyer escorting the huge battleship of Mrs Butterfield, parted the crowds on either side of them, and arrived breathless at the queue.

‘What will you put on her, dearie - five quid?’ panted Mrs Butterfield.

‘Five quid,’ echoed Mrs Harris, ‘after an ’unch like that? Fifty!’

At the mendon of this sum Mrs Butterfied looked as though she were going to faint. Pallor spread from chin to chin, until it covered all three. She quivered with emotion. ‘Fifty quid,’ she whispered, in case anyone should be listening to such folly. ‘Fifty quid!’

‘At five to one, that would be two hundred and fifty pounds,’ asserted Mrs Harris calmly.

Mrs Butterfield’s normal pessimism assailed her again. ‘But what if she loses?’

‘It can’t,’ said Mrs Harris imperturbably. ‘ ’Ow can it?’

By this time they were at the window. While Mrs Butter-field’s eyes threatened to pop out of the folds of her face, Mrs Harris opened her battered brown handbag, extracted a sheaf of money, and said: ‘Fifty quid on Howt Cowter, number six, to win.’

Mechanically the ticket-seller repeated: ‘Haute Couture, number six, fifty pounds to win,’ and then, startled by the amount, bent down to look through the wire screen at the heavy better. His eyes looked into the glowing blue beads of Mrs Harris, and the apparition of the little char startled him into an exclamation of ‘Blimey’, which he quickly corrected into ‘Good luck, madam’, and pushed the ticket to her. Mrs Harris’s hand was not even trembling as she took it, but Mrs Butterfield stared at it as though it were a snake that might bite her. The two went off to the trackside to attend the fulfilment of the promised miracle.

The tragedy that they then witnessed was brief and conclusive. ‘Haute Couture’ led the first time around, running easily and smoothly, like the thoroughbred lady she was, but at the last turn she was assailed suddenly by an uncontrollable itch. She ran out into the middle of the track, sat down and scratched it to her relief and satisfaction. When she had finished, so was the race - and Mrs Harris.

It was not so much the loss of her hard-earned, hard-saved, so-valued fifty pounds that upset Mrs Harris and darkened her otherwise ebullient spirits in the following days, as the evidence that the policeman-magistrate God was uppermost, and that He was out of sorts with her. She had evidently misread his intentions, or perhaps it was only her own idea to take a plunge, and the Creator did not hold with this. He had sent swift and sure punishment in the form of a heavenly flea. Did it mean that He was not going to allow Mrs Harris to have her dress after all? Was she wishing for something so foolish and out of keeping with her position that He had chosen this method to indicate His disapproval?

She went about her work torn by this new problem, moody and preoccupied, and, of course, just because her Preceptor seemed to be against the idea, it made desire for the dress all the greater. She was of the breed who could defy even her Maker if it was necessary, though, of course, she had no notion that one could win out over Him. He was all-powerful, and His decisions final, but that did not say that Mrs Harris had to like them, or take them lying down.

The following week, when returning one evening from work, her eyes cast down due to the oppression that sat upon her, they were caught by a glitter in the gutter, as of a piece of glass reflecting in the lamplight overhead. But when she bent down, it was not a piece of glass at all, but a diamond clip, and one, as she saw at once, from the platinum frame and the size of the stones, of considerable value.

This time she had no truck either with hunches or communications. The thought that this piece of jewellery might be ten times the worth of the dress she longed for never entered her head. Because she was who she was and what she was, she responded almost automatically; she wended her way to the nearest police station and turned the article in, leaving her name and address, and a description of where she had found it. Within a week she was summoned back to the police station, where she received the sum of twenty-five pounds reward from the grateful owner of the lost clip.

And now all oppression was lifted from the soul of Mrs Harris, for the stern Magistrate Above had taken off His wig, reversed it and donned it as the beard of Santa Claus, and she was able to interpret both that which had happened to her, and the Divine Intention. He had returned
half her money to show that He was no longer angry with her, and that if she were faithful and steadfast she might have her dress - but she was no longer to gamble; the missing twenty-five pounds said that. It was to be earned by work, sweat, and self-denial. Well, in the joy that filled her, she was prepared to give all that.

S
OMEWHERE
along the line without really trying - for Mrs Harris believed that by looking into things too energetically one could sometimes learn too much - the little charwoman had come across two pertinent bits of information. There were currency restrictions which forbade exporting more than ten pounds out of Great Britain and therefore no French shop would accept a large sum of money in pounds, but demanded another currency. So it would have done her no good to have smuggled out such a sum as four hundred and fifty pounds, nor would she have done so.

For Mrs Harris’s code of ethics was both strict and practical. She would tell a fib but not a lie. She would not break the law, but she was not averse to bending it as far as it would go. She was scrupulously honest, but at the same time was not to be considered a mug.

Since pounds were forbidden as well as useless in quantities in Paris, she needed some other medium of exchange and hit upon dollars. And for dollars there was one person to whom she could turn, the friendly, kind, and not-too-bright American lady, Mrs Schreiber.

Mrs Harris conveniently invented a nephew in America who was apparently constitutionally impecunious, a kind of half-wit, unable to support himself and to whom, on a blood-is-thicker-than-water basis, she was compelled to send money. The name Mrs Harris cooked up for him was Albert, and he lived in Chattanooga, a place she bad picked out of the daily America column in the
Express
. She often held long conversations with Mrs Schreiber about this derelict relative. ‘A good boy, my poor dead sister’s son, but a bit weak in the ’ead, he was.’

Mrs Schreiber who was more than a bit muzzy herself with regard to British currency laws, saw no reason why she should not aid such a good-hearted person as Mrs Harris, and since she was wealthy and possessed an almost limitless supply of dollars, or could get fresh ones whenever she wanted them, Mrs Harris’s slowly accumulating hoard of pounds got themselves translated into American currency. It became an accepted thing week by week, this exchange. Mrs Schreiber likewise paid her in dollars and tipped her in dollars and nobody was any the wiser.

Slowly but surely over a period of two years the wad of five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bills grew in girth until one fresh morning, early in January, counting her hoard and thumbing her bank book, Mrs Harris knew that she was no longer too far away from the realisation of her dream.

She was well aware that anyone leaving the British Isles to travel abroad must hold a valid British passport, and she consulted Major Wallace as to what was necessary to obtain such a document, receiving explicit information as to where, how, and to whom she must apply in writing.

‘Thinking of going abroad?’ he asked with some amazement and no little alarm, since he considered Mrs Harris’s ministrations indispensable to his comfort and well-being.

Mrs Harris tittered: ‘ ’Oo me? Where would I be going?’ She hastily invented another relative. ‘It’s for me niece. She’s going out to Germany to get married. Nice boy stationed in the Army there.’

And here you can see how Mrs Harris differentiated between a fib and a lie. A fib such as the above did nobody any harm, while a lie was deliberate, told to save yourself or to gain an unfair advantage.

Thus a never-to-be-forgotten moment of preparation was the day the instructions arrived from the Passport Office, a formidable blank to be filled in with ‘4 photographs of the applicant 2 inches by 2 inches in size, etc., etc.’

‘Whatever do you think,’ Mrs Harris confided to her friend Mrs Butterfield in a state of high excitement, ‘I’ve got to ’ave me photograph tyken. They want it for me passport. You’d better come along and hold me ’and.’

The one and only time that Mrs Harris had ever faced the camera lens was upon the occasion of her wedding to Mr Harris and then she had the stout arm of that stout plumber to support her during the ordeal.