And Five Were Foolish

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Lady Ann Minter got out of the train with relief. After the heat and misery of the third-class carriage, the evening air of Suet felt like a drink of water from a dirty mug—still, it was water, and the journey down had been hell. After all, the tip of a beggar's finger could be a welcome continent for a rich man.

Her husband took her arm and guided her out of the crowd. "See now, kid," he said tenderly, setting her dressing-case down, "you just stay here and watch out for me. I'm off to find your trunk." "All right, Bob," said Lady Ann Minter.

Alone for the first time since her marriage, she tried to gather her thoughts. But they were restless. The noise and movement around her, the sense of a missed opportunity, all undermined her control. She needed to think clearly, to make up her mind, for everything depended on an immediate decision. Yet the very facts seemed to elude her. She was desperate to face them, but they danced and flickered and would not be grasped.

Hideous, blazing questions blinded her fumbling mind. She found herself whispering them aloud. "Why didn't I think of all this? How can I possibly bear it? What shall I do—do?" And then the scorching answers: "God knows... I must... Nothing."

She saw her father standing with his back to the log-laden hearth—his white, set face and tightened lips. There were roses on the mantelpiece behind him, and a Morland painting hanging above—a spreading oak, a cottage, and a jolly brown horse. A woman stood in the doorway holding a little boy, and a man on the horse smiled. They were alone and happy under the spreading oak—very poor and simple, but alone and very happy.

She saw her aunt on her knees with tears running down her face, the china arranged neatly on the walls, and smelled the potpourri she had made the year before. The evening sun poured into the room, planting golden badges on plate and bowl and pitcher, turning the closet into a queen's parlour.

She saw the register office and the registrar's face like a mask, heard the cameras click as she and Bob passed out, felt the insolent stares of the waiter who served them lunch.

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The journey down had been dreadful. The heat, the discomfort, the endless talk. The coaches had stood in the August sun and become like ovens. Any air that entered was instantly baked. Yet the fight for seats had been savage—one woman was knocked down, and children were dragged and trampled. Bob had secured two places because he was strong, but one was seized before his bride could take possession. A violent quarrel followed, while Ann stood between the seats, smiling nervously and ready to die of shame. Only the timely eviction of another passenger—whose sudden illness revealed he was much the worse for drink—averted a complete breakdown. The sight of the wages of intemperance proved to be the touch of nature that turned discord into harmony, and for the next twenty minutes various comments on the episode revealed a cordial unanimity that was almost touching.

Then a family in a corner was rudely reinforced by the sudden arrival of two small boys. With no seats available, they could not be prevented from occupying the open windows—delightful vantage points they exploited to the full, shouting and swapping places. The constant movement soon turned into a game, which their relatives did nothing to stop until a particularly deliberate collision led one boy to hit the other on the nose. The fight that followed was dreadful. The boys were dragged apart, the aggressor was cuffed into tears even more explosive than his victim's, and both were shaken and scolded. A handkerchief that had already been used to wrap an ounce of sweets was used to stop the bleeding. Threats were exchanged, and sharp comments about upbringing were made.

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Only the appearance of food relieved the tension, and under the soothing influence of snacks, good humour more or less returned. A baby in arms was given a ham sandwich—at least the tip was put into its mouth. It sucked contentedly, while shreds of fat melted on its chin. A girl absentmindedly ate plums and put the stones in Ann's lap. A married couple opposite seemed incapable of underestimating the size of their mouths, which made their attempts at witty conversation hilarious and distorted their replies into fresh openings for their rivals. Before the meal was over, the train ran into a tunnel and, after slowing to a crawl, came to a dead stop. Someone giggled, and a burst of hysterical laughter followed. In the midst of it all, Ann felt Bob's arm steal around her and his lips on her cheek. He kept his arm about her for the rest of the trip.

And now—

Again she tried to concentrate, to pull her thoughts into line. They came sluggishly.

Married... she was married... married to Bob—Bob Minter, one of her father's grooms. She had done it because she loved him. She had married him in London that morning, and—that morning? Was it possible that it was only that morning? Was it only that morning that the registrar had bowed and...

Her thoughts began to slip away. She let them go.

She stared at her wedding-ring... touched it, plucked at it desperately.

The hideous questions and answers leapt like mad rams: "Why? God knows... How can I? I must... What? Nothing."

For an instant, panic fear looked out of her steady grey eyes.

Then—

"All serene, kid. I've got the goods," panted Bob. He turned to a shambling porter, pushing a truck. "Say, mate, where do you keep your taxis?"

"Not here," said the porter. "Might get a cab." He led them wearily.

"You—you've got rooms, Bob?" faltered his bride.

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Her husband's eyes shone as he slid an arm beneath hers. "Course I have, kid." He hesitated. Then: "I didn't mean to tell you, but... I won't be able to give you the home you ought to have—servants and cars and such. More's the pity. But just this once—for this fortnight I've done my lady proud." His voice trembled with excitement and pride. "You've got the best room in Suet, darling—the best on the whole parade. There isn't a fine lady in the town that's got such a room. The Countess of Hampshire used to have it, and all the high muck-a-mucks have bitten and scratched to get it whenever they come this way. First floor—looks right over the pier... And not a chair moved, nor a picture. You'll have it just the same. You see, my aunt she keeps apartments—the best in Suet. And when we fixed things up, I wrote to her, told her on the quiet, and said I wanted her first bedroom—just for you.

And she wrote back and said that you should have it if she had to turn people out. She's a good heart, is old Aunt Harriet. Givin' it us at a cut price, too—season and all. And we'll grub with her and the girls and Uncle Tom—I tell you, kid, they don't half know how to live. Why, you'll be as fat as butter before we go back to Town."

Ann's brain reeled. "Grub with her and the girls and Uncle Tom... Grub with..."

The station-yard faded, and the Morland above the mantelpiece stole into view—the spreading oak, the cottage, the girl at the door, the man on the horse smiling, the humble intimacy of the scene, the simple happiness, the precious privacy... privacy.

She was an outcast, of course—excommunicated. The order had been made that morning. She had signed it herself deliberately, with open eyes. More: she had done it gladly. She had wanted to be expelled, to live with Bob—but under a spreading oak, in a cottage, alone, as outcasts live—not at Suet... not grubbing with Aunt Harriet, the girls, and Uncle Tom. She thought Bob had understood that. She had told him plainly—a child could have understood. And yet...

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The pathos of his failure hit her hard. He couldn't grasp that she didn't want a 'show.' He couldn't appreciate such heresy. Her words had meant nothing. Because she was his great lady, she must have as fine a show as he could arrange. Other women must be made jealous of her good fortune. Others could hide in cottages under spreading oaks, but she must go to Suet—fashionable Suet—and have the best room in the place, looking over the pier. It was the most loving compliment he could pay.

By a supreme effort, Ann drove the alarm out of her eyes, shook off the cold clutch of horror, and squeezed her husband's arm. "You're very good to me, Bob," she said steadily. "I think you were wonderful to think of it all. We shall—shall be grand having the best room in Suet."

Bob coloured with delight. "Oh, it's nothin' much," he said awkwardly. "I expect you've often had rooms pretty near as good. But I—I like to think I'll be giving you the best... just for once." He broke away and went to a cabman who, learning who they were, might agree to take them at a special rate.

Ann watched him in a daze.

Nothing, it seemed, was to be spared her—nothing. The discovery that she had made one grand, irrevocable mistake stunned her. The savagery of the penalty she was to pay made her soul cringe. But the ghastly, mocking irony of poor Bob's solicitude cut like a cold, wet lash. The spirit of Satire was possessing his honest heart, making his thoughts, words, and loving deeds appear grotesque. He offered some tender mockery with every breath. The eager pride with which he tried to make Fate laugh tore at Ann's heart. It was pathetic—with the pathos of a dying dog that whimpers because it cannot rise to amuse its master. And because it was so heartrending, she could not possibly tell him. She had to suffer the blows, the lashes, the claws without flinching. He could not be told.

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As for her love—Ann put a hand to her head, as if to focus the truth. Her passion for Bob was gone. The flame was not even smoking; the fire had been quenched. Ann felt cold with shame. Bob had been so fearful, and her love had cast out his fear. He had never doubted her love, only whether it could survive the strain. And she had fought to convince him until he was convinced. He believed heart and soul in its ability... heart and soul... And now—Bob had been right. Her fearless love had not endured eight hours—not eight hours.

Of course, she hadn't understood. There had been a misunderstanding. She had assumed—

The excuses leaked like sieves. The truth poured through them. It was she—she only—who was to blame. She hadn't thought of all this. Her father had. So had her aunt. So even had Bob—poor, weak, unsophisticated Bob. With tears in his eyes, he had begged her not to shatter his life. And she had smiled and kissed him and shattered his life and hers too.

The sting of death became a pin-prick, the victory of the grave an unfinished game, compared with the horror of what life was offering her.

It seemed, indeed, that nothing was to be spared her.

Bob returned beaming. His negotiation with the cabman had succeeded, for the driver was in a holiday mood. He had been about to return to his stable, and 'Pier View' was on his way. He would take them for nothing. He was, as Bob put it, 'a proper sport.' It soon appeared that he was also a joker.

Naturally, his willingness to oblige a friend made him feel like one of the family. He celebrated his promotion with a stream of jokes about marriage and intimate memories of his own wedding, tying a small bouquet to his whip and loudly asking for directions to the 'Abode of Love.'

The onlookers roared with laughter.

Encouraged, he stopped outside the station and, addressing a policeman, asked to borrow his white gloves, explaining that his own were 'being put away by my valet with my hunting things. You know what these servants are, officer.'

He was genuinely funny.

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For the rest of the way, he kept up a lively, affectionate conversation with Lady Ann's trunk—a performance that, judging by the shocked shrieks of laughter that followed them, delighted the passers-by. Their progress was triumphant.

Bob enjoyed it thoroughly, as a man enjoys being teased about something he is proud of. He was all sheepish smiles. Ann was all smiles too, though her face ached with the strain, and every nerve in her body was screaming. She was on the verge of hysteria.

"God knows... I must... Nothing."

Satire spat on his hands and took a fresh grip.

When they arrived at 'Pier View,' it turned out that there was no need to ring the front-door bell, for three separate reasons, all unpleasant. First, they were not expected to use the front door. Second, a small boy—wearing a tight green blazer and dirty flannel shorts—was swinging idly on the area gate, sucking on a piece of butterscotch. He took one look at the couple and fell down the steps, bellowing, "Here they are!" Third, the knot of curious passers-by, which had been forming as the cab approached, began to listen to the driver's story.

Bob got out and bent down to set Ann's dressing-case by the area gate. As he turned, the small boy reappeared, followed by a large, businesslike face—one that could look very stern but was at that moment wreathed in smiles. Behind it came two other feminine faces, open-mouthed and peering—one fat, snub-nosed, and jolly-eyed; the other discontented and pinched. The crowd of onlookers was growing, and the cabman was telling an anecdote that recommended removing one's boots before going to bed...

Ann saw it all as if in an ugly dream.

She realised that the train journey and this arrival were only the prologue to the play she had chosen—the ghastly comedy in which she was to take the leading role. The prologue had been striking, but the play... the play would be the thing. Of course, plays were. The prologue was nothing. So far she had hardly appeared. When the curtain rose on the play... She wondered if there would be an epilogue.

Suddenly, with a shock, she realised that the curtain was already up, that the stage was waiting... waiting... that this—was—her—cue.

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The crowd laughed at the cabman's jokes. Aunt Harriet and the girls reached the top of the area steps. Bob was busy with her trunk. A gramophone from next door began to play "Yes! We Have No Bananas." The cabman stopped talking, listened, and then said, "Hark! The herald angels sing." The crowd roared with delight. Enter The Lady Ann Minter.

Ann pulled herself together and got out of the cab. She turned to the driver and extended her hand. "Thank you so much for bringing us," she said charmingly.

It was a fatal gesture—because it was the act of a lady.

The laughter stopped abruptly; the grins faded; the friendly atmosphere turned stiff. The cabman's confidence vanished like a suit of armour falling away. His joking collapsed under a wave of respect. He took off his shabby hat and touched her fingers. "Thank you, ma'am," he said humbly.

In the shocked silence, Ann turned to the steps. She could hear the breathing of the onlookers and feel their resentful stares burning her face. She had spoiled the fun, embarrassed them, turned the merriment she should have led into a ceremony they could not follow. She had raised the whip of her superiority and laid it across their shoulders. Only the gramophone continued its terrible tune, like a clown performing in a room where someone was dying.

"We have broad beans like bunions, cabbages and onions..."

Faced with this masterstroke of fate, Ann could have burst into tears. She had tried desperately to rise to the occasion, only to fail—to let everyone down. The hopelessness of her situation blazed before her. Envy, hatred, and malice had been appointed her attendants. She was not only to suffer herself but to cause pain, breed resentment, invite ill will. Any effort she made was doomed from the start—not only to fail but to turn against her. And she could do nothing, because there was nothing to be done. She had sold her birthright, but she could not sell her breeding. Her manner, her speech, her appearance could not be changed. She was a peacock dressed in crow's feathers—and the crows would fiercely resent her condescension.

"But yes! We have no bananas... We have no bananas today."

Would resent? Were resenting...

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As she crossed the pavement, someone said, "Oh, haughty! Stand back for Lady Ermyntrude." A stifled giggle followed.

Her face burning, Ann stepped up to her hostess, who was obviously delighted at the prospect of entertaining her new niece. Aunt Harriet was determined to show that she was not to be looked down upon. She extended her hand at chin height.

"How d'you do, Lady Ann. Pleased to meet you. I hope you're not too tired, but it's so hot for travelling." She turned to glare at the onlookers. "Stare a bit harder, won't you? Where are your camp stools? Albert, bring up that dressing-case before it's pinched." The small boy hastened to obey. "Don't bang it on the steps. Come in, Lady Ann." She began to descend, pushing the girls ahead of her. "I hope you left his lordship well."

"Very—very well, thank you," stammered Ann.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Aunt Harriet ecstatically. "It's so nice to think of one's dear ones—" She swung round to glare at the railings. "Albert, go back and see who threw those shrimps... Horrible, vulgar brutes!" She stood there fuming. "Really, the people who come to Suet nowadays, Lady Ann—well, I don't know where they were born. I didn't know there were such people. They'd push you as soon as look at you. One's better off at home. Walking out is no pleasure at all. But come in, dear. Come in and meet the girls."

She led Ann through the passage and into a parlour. The table was laid for a meal, with covers for eight.

Standing nervously together, as if for protection, were the two girls and two young men.

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The sour-faced girl adopted a nonchalant pose, hand on hip, eyebrows raised, lip curled. Her jolly-eyed sister seemed on the verge of hysterics, her face set in a nervous grin, her hands twitching, her eyes fixed on the floor. The young men were even more uncomfortable. Both were tall and thin. One was dark and had a throaty voice, which he emphasised by wearing a tennis shirt open at the neck, with the collar carelessly arranged over his coat. His long hair was oiled, brushed straight back. Two inches of side whisker and remarkably long fingernails suggested artistic pretensions, which the soulful expression on his sallow face was meant to confirm. He gave the impression of being able to groan effectively. The other had a jauntier, more worldly air. His tiny moustache was waxed, his fair hair parted in the middle and curled into two horns.

He was clearly aware of his superiority and, in case others missed it, was languidly sucking his teeth. His collar—soft, with broad black and white stripes—his red and chocolate tie, and the golden handkerchief flowing from his breast pocket proclaimed his fashion sense.

"These are my daughters," said Aunt Harriet, "and their gentlemen friends. May..."

The sour-eyed girl stepped forward and shook hands, then turned away, blushing furiously, to toy with a book.

"Ada." The jolly-eyed girl gulped, giggled, stepped forward, missed Ann's hand, tried again, clutched it, and withdrew.

"Mr. Barnham." The aesthete lurched forward, stumbled, bowed over Ann's fingers, and turned away in confusion.

"Mr. Alcock." Mr. Alcock relished showing how things should be done. Here was a perfect opportunity to display his superiority, impress Ann with his unexpected sophistication, and any lurking idea that he couldn't handle such an encounter. He stepped forward eagerly.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," he said warmly. "How's Piccadilly?"

It was a difficult question to answer. Before Ann could reply, there was an explosion of laughter that had been held back too long. Ada had burst out laughing, unable to contain herself. Mr. Barnham began to snigger in sympathy. The damage was done.

Aunt Harriet was mortified. Mr.

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Alcock turned red, then broke into a sweat. Ann stared at him, fascinated. Two red spots of anger burned on May's cheeks. Aunt Harriet made a rattling noise.

"Ada!" The sharp tone brought her daughter up short. Aunt Harriet turned to her guest. "Overwrought," she said, as if making a public excuse for someone she planned to punish later. "Takes after her father. Shall we go upstairs, Lady Ann? I'm sure you'd like to see your room, and we can have a quiet chat."

"I'd love to," said Ann.

As she went to the door, she glanced around. Mr. Alcock had slunk to the window and was using a handkerchief violently. Ada, red-nosed and puffy, stared at the floor. May was glaring at the ceiling. Mr. Barnham looked like he was about to say something unpleasant.

"So—so long," said Ann pleasantly.

The others just stared.

"My dear," said Aunt Harriet as they climbed the stairs, "I want you to feel that this is a home from home. Marriage is a wrench. One leaves a loving home for a strange place. And you do feel strange. I remember my own wedding. We went down to a little out-of-the-way place where no one knew what a lady was. I was so lonely I could have cut my throat. But you have no need to do that. You're among friends here who feel as you do and like the ways you like. I give you my word, Lady Ann, vulgarity makes me sick. And there's so much of it today."

When they reached a door on the first floor, she opened it and led Ann into a large, dingy bedroom facing the sea. The brown wallpaper was worn and dirty. The threadbare carpet was covered with cheap rugs. A voluminous muslin curtain swathed the dressing table. The wardrobe, washstand, and bed looked as if they had come from different second-hand shops. A rusty horsehair couch sulked in a corner. Engravings of royal baptisms and weddings hung on the walls. One of the Venetian blind cords had broken, and the slats were splayed. A window in the bay was open, letting in the noise of what sounded like a huge fair.

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"There," said the proud hostess, folding her hands over her stomach. "Simple, but tasteful. I remember so well when the Countess of Hampshire was here. 'Mrs. Root,' she said, 'people have an idea that we titled folk must have display. Completely wrong. My bedroom at Hasocks is just like this—quiet, but distinguished.'"

"It's delightful," said Ann, looking around. "I—I don't feel strange at all."

"Couldn't if you tried," came the triumphant reply. "It's so restful." She sat down on a chair. "Now, my dear, make yourself at home. This is your private room in Holiday House."

"You're very kind," said Ann.

"Don't mention it."

The abrupt statement was disconcerting, not meant to be taken literally. After searching for the right words—

"I—I wonder where Bob is," said Ann. "If I could have my dressing-case..."

"Now, don't you go making a toilet," said Aunt Harriet. "We'll be going out soon. Not that I don't like changing," she added hastily, "because I do. But Tom—my husband—is so lazy. Of course, I'm afraid I've fallen off, but there you are. What's the use of my dressing up when he thinks taking off his collar is dressing?" She sighed heavily. "But there, there," she added. "We all have our cross to bear."

"Well, I'll just wash my face and hands," said Ann. "One gets so dirty in the train."

"Just as you please," said her hostess. "I'm afraid it's a waste of time—the pier is so filthy—but it will freshen you up." She pushed past the dressing table and stuck her head out the window.

"Albert!" she yelled.

"Hello," came the small boy's voice.

"Don't say 'hello' to me," snapped Aunt Harriet.

"What?"

His great-aunt drew in a breath. "Where's Bob?" she demanded.

"Gone to have a drink with the driver."

"Well, leave that trunk and bring up Lady Ann's dressing-case."

"What?"

Albert's inability to hear unpleasant news was maddening. His great-aunt glared. "You heard well enough just now," she said, her voice shaking.

"Bob told me to wait here."

"And I tell you to bring up Lady Ann's case."

"What?"

Aunt Harriet left the window and stormed out of the room. Albert wisely put some distance between himself and 'Pier View.'

Ann removed her hat and flung herself face down on the bed.

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"Why didn't I think of all this? God knows. How can I bear it? I must. What shall I do? Nothing."

It suddenly seemed to Ann that it was all intensely funny. The comedy of the situation was rich. Albert, Aunt Harriet, Mr. Alcock alone would have been enough to bring the house down. Surely, she had a sense of humour...

Someone laughed, wildly.

Ann realised this was another of fate's subtleties. She was not to be given something as simple as tragedy. She was to be tortured by a roaring farce—a farce built on tears and broken dreams and all the incurable pain of regret. It was the dance of doom.

When Aunt Harriet returned, carrying the dressing-case, she was obviously annoyed that her guest's whim had caused her extra work. She managed a strained smile, but her irritation was clear. Ann, now ready, descended with her. The polite bond Aunt Harriet had established seemed strained. All Ann's attempts to maintain it only made the awkwardness worse.

Thankfully, Bob was in the parlour, cheerfully talking with a jolly fat man who turned out to be Uncle Tom.

Her husband introduced Ann, his eyes shining.

For a moment the fat man looked at her. Then he inclined his head. "Your servant, my lady," he said respectfully.

"Nonsense," said Ann. "You're my uncle," and she kissed him on the cheek.

"Oh, you peach," said her uncle, and kissed her back. With his arm around her, he addressed the company. "Just leave us alone for a few minutes, will you? There are one or two hymns we want to go over." This reference to a recent scandal involving a local church figure caused great amusement.

Ann tried to be grateful. Mr. Alcock also rose to the occasion. "Break away, break away, there!" he cried.

Uncle Tom turned his head. "Percy, my lad," he said, "you haven't got a chance. This little girl likes them fat." Shrieks of laughter followed.

They sat down to tea hilariously.

"Do you hunt at all?" asked Mr. Alcock, offering a dish of shrimps.

"I've given it up," said Ann.

"He means by night," said Uncle Tom.

Laughter erupted.

"Oh, give over, Pa," wailed Ada. "You've given me the hiccups."

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 14 / 23
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

It was true. They tried various remedies, but the spasms continued. "Hold your breath," said Bob. Ada inhaled deeply and sat like a statue. They all watched. Her eyes began to bulge...

"Stick it," said Bob. "Stick it." A flush spread over her face, sweat formed on her brow, and she was squinting. Finally she exhaled with a whoosh. For a moment she breathed easily. Then a fresh hiccup seized her.

Suddenly, with a roar, Mr. Barnham slapped the table. Everyone jumped. Ann started to her feet. Aunt Harriet screamed. May recoiled. Bob and Mr. Alcock stared. Uncle Tom, who had been drinking, coughed and cursed.

To everyone's relief, Ada's hiccups stopped.

"Enough to stop anything," muttered Aunt Harriet. "Don't you know how to behave?"

"Of course I do," said Mr. Barnham, offended. "I did it to stop her hiccups."

"I don't want to know why you did it," said his hostess. "You did it—and that's enough. You should be ashamed of yourself. May, give Lady Ann a slice of beef."

Mr. Barnham, embarrassed, sulkily ate a piece of dry bread.

Conversation resumed. Mr. Alcock talked about sports, praising tennis as if he had tried everything. Uncle Tom told a story about an argument in the pub over a rare disease. Aunt Harriet contributed gruesome anecdotes about her own family. May mentioned that someone had said a new bus service was starting between Suet and Lather, and asked Ann if she liked motoring.

Ann replied with enthusiasm. "I think it's tremendous fun."

"Do you have the Blue Fleet in Dorset?" asked May.

"I—I don't know," stammered Ann. "Do we, Bob?"

"Yes, dear," said Bob.

"That fellow who hit your car was from the Blue Fleet."

There was an awful silence.

"Your car?" asked Uncle Tom.

"Yes," said Ann desperately.

"Nice little car, too," said Bob. "Wish I could give her one now."

"A.C.?" ventured Mr. Alcock.

"A.C.?" said Bob. "She's a forty-fifty horsepower Rolls-Royce."

Another silence.

"Must have been delightful," said Aunt Harriet weakly. "Still, there are things besides cars."

"Rather," said Ann, with forced cheerfulness.

"Such as what?" asked Uncle Tom.

"Well, all is not gold that glitters," snapped his wife.

"That's true," said Mr. Barnham wisely.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 15 / 23
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

"What do you mean?" said his host. "What's true? A Rolls-Royce car is good enough for most people."

"And who said it wasn't?" put in May.

"Look here," said her father. "Your mother said there were things besides cars."

"So there are," said May. "Fine clothes and fine relations." She laughed spitefully.

"Shut up, May," said Ada. "She never said she had a car. It was Bob who started it."

"That's right," said Bob, red-faced. "I said it, and where's the harm?"

"No harm at all," said his aunt smoothly. "If the truth were known, I expect she had two or three cars."

Her husband stopped chewing and stared at Ann. Then he spoke through his food. "Did you?" he demanded.

"No, indeed," said Ann quickly. "I think I was lucky to have one."

Uncle Tom nodded approvingly. "You were," he said firmly. Ann breathed again. "My old dad thought he was lucky to have his own tip-cart, and—"

"Don't be stupid, Pa," interrupted May. "Grandpa was only a common man."

Her father gasped. This was insulting his family.

"I mean," said May sweetly, "he wasn't a lord."

"I bet he was just as good," said Ann.

"So he was!" cried Uncle Tom, almost choking. He turned to May. "You hear, you ungrateful girl? Here's a lady who knows a lord when she sees one and doesn't have to go to a library to learn about high life. And she says he was as good. 'Common man'!" The phrase infuriated him. He shook his finger at her. "You just be careful, young woman. Don't go getting ideas above your station. Just because you go to dances and cinemas at night and have a boyfriend to buy you cheap sweets doesn't make you any better than you are. Ladies are born..."

His words landed like a bombshell. May's face turned purple. Aunt Harriet was fuming. Ada looked scared. Mr. Barnham muttered. Mr. Alcock examined his nails. Bob smiled sheepishly. Ann felt the tension and tried not to tremble.

A sudden ring at the bell broke the silence.

"That's Mr. Mason," said Ada. "I hope he's brought Miss Gedge." She left the room.

They heard a voice singing "I Ain't Nobody's Darling" in a cheerful baritone, coming towards them.

"That's him!" shouted Uncle Tom gleefully. "Come in, you bounder. There's no room, but we can't keep you out."

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 16 / 23
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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Mr. Alcock and Mr. Barnham forced laughs.

Mr. Mason entered, tripped, steadied himself, cast a look of disgust at the threshold, placed his hat on Mr. Barnham's outstretched hand, sidestepped to the fireplace, pretended to press a bell, and announced, "Waiter, bring a non-skid hammock and a moonlit night: I've just been married."

Even Aunt Harriet laughed reluctantly. Good humour flooded back.

Mr. Mason was plump, cheerful, neatly dressed in a suit a bit too tight, a low collar, a spotted bow tie, and sand shoes. A cane hung from his pocket, and a faded carnation drooped from his buttonhole.

Miss Gedge was stout, openly common, and would have been pretty but for a cast in her eye. She radiated good humour and a mischievous wit. Her infectious laugh was exploited by her companion.

The party grew lively. Lady Ann sat on her husband's lap, while Ada, giggling, settled on Mr. Alcock's knee.

The jokes flowed. Mr. Mason declared, "Children are bits of heaven. I was a large hunk. I remember Mother saying so when she found her boots in the oven. She didn't put it that way, but..." Amid laughter, he was told to behave.

Miss Gedge added, "When we're out, he makes such remarks. Last Saturday a gentleman's hat blew off. 'Stop it!' someone cried. 'Not me,' says Herbert, 'I've left my gas mask at home.'"

More laughter, and Uncle Tom's hearty guffaw.

"He ought to go on the halls," said Mr. Alcock.

Mr. Mason shook his head. "I'd be a sensation in a week. And then poor Mabel..."

"I should worry," said Miss Gedge. "You can't have your Huntley and eat it too, May."

"Not likely," said May. "Look at poor Mrs. Stoker."

"A tragedy," said Aunt Harriet. "Three children and all."

Mr. Barnham, seeing his chance, groaned dramatically.

"When he talks about the stage," continued Miss Gedge, "I say, 'You go, my little friend, and here's happy days. But don't come calling for me on Monday evening.'"

They all laughed. Mr. Mason blinked. "Ah, well," he said, "I suppose it'll have to be holy orders after all." He adjusted his collar, pretended to read from a book, and looked up earnestly. "Brethren, we will now sing 'Cease Thy Tickling, Jock.'"

More laughter.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 17 / 23
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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As it died down, Miss Gedge said, "Oh, I've bought a new straw hat. A real kiss-me-quick. The other doesn't go with my scent since Bank Holiday. I wore it to Hastings, you know, and Herbert's brother was holding it when he came over queer. Memories are sweet, but..."

"She had him on the brain," explained Mr. Mason. Uncle Tom nearly choked laughing.

When order was restored, Mr. Alcock asked, "I say, is this a smoking carriage?" and looked around for approval. More laughter.

Cigarettes were brought out. Mr. Barnham offered his case to Ann, who declined with a smile.

"She'll have one with me," said Bob. He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and then placed it between her lips. Ann winced. Another tender moment made public. May accepted a cigarette from Mr. Mason, who had an unfinished cigar. Ada and Mr. Alcock shared one.

Under the calming influence of tobacco, the conversation became quieter. Small groups formed. Miss Gedge and May whispered together. Mr. Barnham listened to Aunt Harriet. Uncle Tom and Mr. Mason discussed pub closing times. Ada played with Mr. Alcock's hair. Bob caressed Ann's fingers and asked for a kiss.

At length Mr. Mason looked at his watch. "Well, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "what do you say to the pier? I think an evening at the movies with a little dancing in between will just about do me."

The suggestion was met with enthusiasm. They all stood up.

Ann was wondering how to excuse herself, feeling tired, when Bob spoke up. "And this is my treat," he said expansively. "I'm going to stand treat tonight."

There was a murmur of protest. Aunt Harriet quickly said, "Well, I'm sure that's very handsome."

"Now, Bob, my boy," said Uncle Tom, "don't be hasty. Ten shillings is a lot. Just because it's your day off..."

"Why not?" cried Bob. "I want you all to remember this day. I've drawn the first prize in the biggest sweep on earth. Look at her standing there! Isn't she a peach? And you want me to hold back for a matter of thirty shillings!"

"Hooray!" cried Mr. Mason. "Hooray! And mind, the first drink is with me." Laughter and cheers greeted their acceptance.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 18 / 23
# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

Feeling like she had run into a wall, Ann stammered something about getting her hat. "Oh, it's right across the street," said Ada. "We never wear hats just—" She stopped abruptly.

Aunt Harriet filled the awkward pause. "I'm afraid it sounds lax, Lady Ann, but this year the regular residents have given up wearing hats at night. In fact, I think we would be noticed if we did..."

"Oh, I don't mind at all," said Ann. "I like it better." What did it matter? She was married... married to Bob... tied for life. And she was worried about headwear.

They left the house, Aunt Harriet pausing to instruct the charwoman to clean up and set the table for six. "For six," she repeated meaningfully, hoping the two young men would take the hint that they were not welcome back. "And Mrs. Perch—I've measured the beef."

"Very good, Mrs. Root," said that lady stiffly.

"I'll bet you have," she muttered under her breath. "Rotten old toad." When the door closed, she shed a few tears of disappointment. The beef was beautiful.

The pier was close. In less than a minute, they stood before its gates. They had fun getting through the turnstile, teasing the surly attendant, who reacted crossly. Their laughter followed them down the pier.

The cinema was stifling after the fresh sea air. Ann felt she might choke. She sat between Bob and Uncle Tom, Bob's arm around her, holding her hand.

They watched a melodrama with beautiful scenes: a forest at dawn, a river with sunlit woods, the lawns of a great house. The luxury on screen was a cruel reminder of what she had given up. Ann sat in silence, overwhelmed by her loss. She wanted to cry out, to express her agony, to fall to her knees. Instead she stifled her feelings.

Bob whispered, "Give us a kiss, sweetheart." Fainting, she turned her lips to him.

"Now, then, break it up," said an attendant sharply. "If you can't behave, there's plenty of room outside." The audience laughed nervously. Ann felt humiliated, wishing she could die.

She realised that Bob was becoming too confident, treating her like a possession. He was back among his own people, relaxing into their ways. They were not her ways.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 19 / 23
# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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The film ended, and they went to the dance hall. It was crowded. Bob couldn't dance, but Mr. Alcock was in his element. "May I have the pleasure, Lady Ann?" She couldn't refuse.

They danced a jerky fox-trot, bumping into others. Soon Ann noticed curious looks and nudges. She and Mr. Alcock had a space around them as people stared. Mr. Alcock was thrilled, puffing with pride. His sneer was insufferable.

When the music stopped, Ann returned to her party. Aunt Harriet grabbed her arm. "Well, Lady Ann, what do you think of our floor? Not bad for old Suet?"

"I think it's very good," said Ann, noticing the crowd forming around them again.

Aunt Harriet raised her voice. "You know, Lady Ann, I'm so glad to have you. I've got so much to ask your advice about. Living in the country all year, one's ideas get in a rut. In town, you're in touch with things. But here—nothing. After a while, stagnation sets in. I tell you, I'll keep you busy. You'll be worn out before I'm through."

"I'm sure I won't," faltered Ann.

The band struck up again. "Shall we take another turn?" asked Mr. Alcock. Ann looked around. "I'm a little tired. Where is Bob?"

"Gone for a drink," said Ada.

"Let's go find them," said Aunt Harriet. They left the floor, people making way for them.

Mr. Alcock was sent to find Bob and Uncle Tom. After an unusually long absence, he returned to say they were nowhere to be seen.

"They've gone to the pub," decided Aunt Harriet. "That's where they are. Never mind."

Mr. Barnham cleared his throat. "Let's take a stroll down," he suggested, "and catch them as they come back." He was trying to avoid spending money on chocolates for May.

But May said, "Oh, who wants to stroll? Let's get back to our seats before the crowd." Mr. Barnham was dismayed. He soon had to buy chocolates from a girl, and the cost clearly pained him.

Ann found herself pitying him. She imagined his future life with a bossy wife, standing outside his house, mustering courage to enter.

Aunt Harriet kept talking at Ann, pouring out trivialities. Ann answered mechanically. She felt horribly alone, even in the crowd. All around her was meaningless noise.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 20 / 23
# chapter_page: 20
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

When the lights dimmed for the next film, Ann saw a chance to escape. She could slip away into the night, mingle with the crowds. But then she remembered: all her money and even her hat were at 'Pier View.' The house would be locked; Aunt Harriet had the key. There was no way. Despair engulfed her.

She decided she must talk to Bob when he returned, explain her feelings, ask him to take her away from this nightmare. She dreaded going back to that awful parlour, to face Aunt Harriet alone.

At last, three figures appeared, stumbling along the row. Mr. Mason came first, pretending to be frightened of being pinched. Uncle Tom followed, laughing loudly, asking if there was room for a little one. Bob brought up the rear, very merry, repeatedly asking if they were all going to Hammersmith Broadway.

People hissed "Shut up! Sit down!" Bob squeezed into his seat, reeking of alcohol. "Well, Beauty, how's things?" he whispered. "Didn't mind me leaving you, did you? Just had a quick one or two to celebrate. They're a couple of good sorts, Herb and Uncle Tom. I tell you, kid, you've landed on your feet. There's not much left for the others when you're around."

Uncle Tom leaned over. "Bob, Bob! She was showing them how to dance. Danced with young Alcock, and they all made room for her. By golly, I wish I'd seen it." He slapped his knee.

Ann felt the world spin. Then she fainted.

The fresh air revived her. She implored them to leave her with Bob and go back, but no one would hear of it. She gave up. There was no reason for them not to return, but they insisted on staying. She was trapped.

They walked slowly back to 'Pier View.' At the pier gates, Mr. Mason and Miss Gedge took their leave. Bob parted with Mr. Mason warmly, swaying slightly. Ann wished she could go with them, but they were gone.

As they reached the area steps, two figures appeared: Mr. and Mrs. Joe Allen, old friends from Plaistow. They had called, but seeing the family arriving, were about to leave. The meeting was very cordial. It might have been noticed that Mr. Allen had been drinking; but he was an old friend.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 21 / 23
# chapter_page: 21
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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The Allens were invited to supper. Mr. Barnham and Mr. Alcock were sent away. The party descended the steps, Ada and May lingering with their young men, whispering final words.

At the door of the parlour, Ann tried once more to excuse herself. Aunt Harriet would have none of it. Food would cure her faintness. She hadn't eaten anything at tea. Ann must trust her. "I know what I'm talking about. I was a bride once." Ann gave in, hopeless. What did it matter?

She sat down at the table, opposite Mrs. Allen, who watched her closely. They piled her plate with beef and bread, filled her glass with stout. She ate and drank obediently, like a puppet. Her spirit was broken.

The meal was lively. The Allens provided a distraction, telling stories of the old days. Mr. Allen, growing more drunk, began to talk about the hardships of the working class, the rich, and the exploitation of the poor.

"Look at the cars in Bond Street," he said, his words slurring. "The rich don't care about the likes of us. Our blood and tears have paved their streets. But we're only common people."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then May laughed, a harsh, gleeful sound. "I said something like that this afternoon," she said, "and got told off for it." Uncle Tom squirmed.

"You said Grandpa was a common man," he said.

"I said he wasn't a lord," retorted May. "And you said I should speak respectful of lords because I wasn't born a lady. You'd rather have a lord's daughter's opinion than your own child's."

Before Uncle Tom could respond, Mr. Allen turned to Ann, his face purple with rage.

"A lord's daughter?" he shouted. "She's the daughter of a lord? And she eats at our table?" He pointed a shaking finger at her. "Where does her money come from? From the sweated labour of the poor! From starving widows and orphans!"

Bob rose to his feet. "Shut your mouth! What do you know about it? She's never robbed anyone."

Mr. Allen staggered up. "I know the truth! Her family's wealth is stolen from the people!

"You're a liar!" roared Bob.

Ada began to cry. Aunt Harriet tried to restrain Bob, but he shook her off. Everyone was on their feet. Uncle Tom grappled with Mr. Allen. Ann, horrified, clung to the back of her chair.

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 22 / 23
# chapter_page: 22
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

Bob continued, "She never stole! Nor her father! It's easy for those who don't want to work to rave about those who've made good and saved their money."

Mr. Allen lurched forward, spittle flying.

"I'm a liar, am I? Just because I tell the truth? She never stole? No, her grandfather did it for her! He was a thief and a murderer!"

Bob hit him in the mouth. Mr. Allen stumbled back, blood streaming from his lip. Uncle Tom jumped between them, gripping Mr. Allen. They wrestled, Uncle Tom shouting, "Get him away! Someone get him out!"

Ann flew to Bob, clinging to his arm. "Bob, for God's sake, come away! It doesn't matter what he says!" Aunt Harriet also tried to hold him back.

Mr. Allen, bleeding, cried out, "He struck me! You all saw it!"

"Yes, I saw," said Uncle Tom, disengaging. "But you asked for it, Joe. You shouldn't have made it so personal. Never mind. Sit down and have a drink." He turned his head. "Will someone get him away? I'm not Hercules!"

Ann pleaded, "Oh, Bob, Bob! Please, for my sake, come away!" But Bob was beyond reason, struggling to get at Mr. Allen.

Ann shouted, "Do you want to kill me? Do you want me to die of shame?"

Bob stopped. He turned. "Look here, kid, I can't let him insult you."

"You've hit him. That's enough. I say so." Her voice rang out, silencing the room.

Uncle Tom stopped. Mr. Allen's curses died on his lips. Aunt Harriet released Bob and stepped back.

"Are you going to question my right?" Ann demanded.

Bob looked down. "No, of course. If you want..."

"I do. I want to leave. Take me away—now."

"Out of the house?" Bob said.

"Out of the house. At once." She turned to the door. No one spoke. Her quiet authority cowed them. She walked out without looking back.

Bob followed, crestfallen.

There was a moment of silence. Then Aunt Harriet said, "Well! Who does she think she is? A queen. 'Take me away, out of the house.'" She laughed bitterly.

"What did I say?" snarled Mr. Allen, wiping blood from his lip. "We're dirt to her. Just dirt to be shaken off her feet."

"Yes, you were very quiet while she was here," snapped Aunt Harriet. "Anyone would think you were afraid of her."

# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-06d8c3b807f34f108f57133f0a64bbd3
# book_title: And Five Were Foolish
# chapter_id: 1-and-five-were-foolish
# chapter_title: And Five Were Foolish
# book_page: 23 / 23
# chapter_page: 23
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose

"Afraid?" screamed Mr. Allen. "Give me my hat. I'll show you!" He shoved Uncle Tom aside, put on his hat, and stormed out, cursing, shouting up at the house.

"Now you've done it," said Uncle Tom quietly.

Outside, Ann and Bob had gone only a few paces. Bob heard the shout and stopped. Ann caught his arm, trying to pull him along. "Come on, Bob! Don't listen to him!

But Bob turned. She tried desperately to stop him, but he shook her off, sending her reeling against the railings. She watched in horror as the two men met.

There was a blur of motion, and Bob fell, striking his head on the curb.

The crowd rushed forward. Ann fell to her knees beside him. She saw the blood. She remembered his mother's warnings, his own fears. She had known this might happen.

A policeman arrived. "Who did this?" he asked. Someone pointed at Mr. Allen. The sergeant knelt and felt Bob's pulse. "He's dead." Ann heard the words but didn't understand. She stared at Bob's face, pale and still. She touched his cheek. It was cold.

"Was he your husband?" asked the sergeant.

Ann looked up, her eyes empty.

"No," she said. "He was my groom."

She had told the truth. The lie, the pretense, was over. She had sacrificed everything for a man who could not understand her, and now he was gone. She knelt in the street, surrounded by the noise of the town, feeling utterly alone.

In her mind, she saw the Morland painting again, the spreading oak, the cottage, the happy couple. She remembered what she had thought she would have with Bob. But it had been a dream, a foolish dream. She had been a fool to think she could escape her world.

She rose, unsteady, and looked at the sea. The lights of the pier glittered, the laughter of the crowd drifted towards her. But she felt nothing. She was done with dreams. She was just a woman who had lost everything.