Cakes and Ale by W. Somerset Maugham

Author:W. Somerset Maugham [Maugham, W. Somerset]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780307816177
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2012-01-24T18:30:00+00:00

XII

MY PROMISE to Roy sent my thoughts back to my first years in London. Having nothing much to do that afternoon, it occurred to me to stroll along and have a cup of tea with my old landlady. Mrs. Hudson’s name had been given to me by the secretary of the medical school at St. Luke’s when, a callow youth just arrived in town, I was looking for lodgings. She had a house in Vincent Square. I lived there for five years, in two rooms on the ground floor, and over me on the drawing-room floor lived a master at Westminster School. I paid a pound a week for my rooms and he paid twenty-five shillings. Mrs. Hudson was a little, active, bustling woman, with a sallow face, a large aquiline nose, and the brightest, the most vivacious, black eyes that I ever saw. She had a great deal of very dark hair, in the afternoons and all day on Sunday arranged in a fringe on the forehead with a bun at the nape of the neck as you may see in old photographs of the Jersey Lily. She had a heart of gold (though I did not know it then, for when you are young you take the kindness people show you as your right) and she was an excellent cook. No one could make a better omelette soufflée than she. Every morning she was up betimes to get the fire lit in her gentlemen’s sitting room so that they needn’t eat their breakfasts simply perishin’ with the cold, my word it’s bitter this morning; and if she didn’t hear you having your bath, a flat tin bath that slipped under the bed, the water put in the night before to take the chill off, she’d say: “There now, there’s my dining-room floor not up yet, ’e’ll be late for his lecture again,” and she would come tripping upstairs and thump on the door and you would hear her shrill voice: “If you don’t get up at once you won’t ’ave time to ’ave breakfast, an’ I’ve got a lovely ’addick for you.” She worked all day long and she sang at her work and she was gay and happy and smiling. Her husband was much older than she. He had been a butler in very good families, and wore side-whiskers and a perfect manner; he was verger at a neighbouring church, highly respected, and he waited at table and cleaned the boots and helped with the washing-up. Mrs. Hudson’s only relaxation was to come up after she had served the dinners (I had mine at half-past six and the schoolmaster at seven) and have a little chat with her gentlemen. I wish to goodness I had had the sense (like Amy Driffield with her celebrated husband) to take notes of her conversation, for Mrs. Hudson was a mistress of Cockney humour. She had a gift of repartee that never failed her, she had a racy style and an apt and varied vocabulary, she was never at a loss for the comic metaphor or the vivid phrase.

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