Francie Comes Home (14 page)

Florence said seriously, “You
have
picked up an astonishing lot in a short time. Well, I've been thinking.” Francie waited, curbing her nervous tongue. “I've been thinking,” resumed Mrs. Ryan, “that it's time we went ahead with your training. Trouble is, I've never seen my way clear to taking you on a buying trip because there hasn't been anyone to leave in the shop.”

Francie's eyes opened wide. A buying trip? She had never dared to contemplate the chance of participating in one of those mysterious and glamorous errands. Florence Ryan herself had been away for the purpose two or three times, leaving Francie in charge, and she had assumed that it would always be that way.

“Wouldn't you like it?” asked Mrs. Ryan, puzzled by her silence.

“Like it? Oh, Mrs. Ryan, I'd just love it!” said Francie. “You've knocked me for a loop, that's all. Would we be gone very long, though? What about the shop?”

“Anne Clark's promised to look after it—isn't that nice of her? You can always depend on Anne when you need her,” said Mrs. Ryan. “I don't know anybody else I'd trust as much. Well, now, I usually plan on spending the whole working week in Chicago, going around and pricing things and leaving orders and generally seeing what's doing in the trade, and if your family can spare you for that much more time we might stay over the weekend and have a little binge. See a play and that sort of thing. Would you like that?”

Francie said, “I'd not only like it. I'm all swelled up with pride.”

“Why, you didn't think I was going to keep you as a stockroom slave forever, I hope,” said Mrs. Ryan, but she was gratified; Francie could see that.

The next week was a busy one, showing Anne Clark such matters about the shop that her quick intelligence hadn't already grasped during her frequent visits, and arranging the itinerary for the journey. Mrs. Ryan always drove her car on these trips, and had a regular beat on the way, calling in at other gift shops in the towns they passed through so that at least a day of her absence was used up on the road, going and coming. She outlined the plans to Francie, who marveled as she made note of the shops' names.

“‘Ye Olde Curiositie Shoppe',” she said, reading it out in wondering tones from a letterhead. “Mrs. Ryan, not really!”

“Well, why not?”

“Oh, I don't know; it just sounds like a parody of itself. And this one—‘Ye Corner Cupboard'.”

“It's a very good name,” said Florence stoutly. “Best thing about that shop, if you ask me. It attracts attention. Passers by know exactly what to expect when they see a name like that—antique china, pottery, glass, knickknacks.”

“Not to mention greeting cards, and maybe a circulating library as well?” asked Francie with deliberate malice.

Mrs. Ryan said, “As it happens,
not
a circulating library. You're a superior young thing, Frances Beatrice; your Aunt Norah doesn't spank you enough.”

The preparations entailed a good deal of visiting back and forth with Fredericks & Worpels, for it was a part of Mrs. Ryan's reciprocal arrangement with that firm that they should run each other's errands when either of them made visits to Chicago. Several days before their departure Francie went in to take a message and found Chadbourne alone. Chadbourne said for the third or fourth time that she fiercely envied Francie's opportunity. “I do wish Mummy would take me now and then when she goes on business trips, but until now she always had some reason for leaving me here,” she said, “and ever since Lucky joined us it's been his job. So I don't suppose I'll ever get a chance.”

Francie said, “You're a silly, Chad. You know perfectly well you could go any time you liked, anywhere you liked. Your mother would take you with her, too, if she believed you really wanted to go or were interested in the firm's affairs.”

Chadbourne looked stubborn, but didn't deny it outright. The fact was, Francie suspected, she had never thought of wanting to go to Chicago, or on any buying trip, until just now. The idea would never have occurred to her, or have seemed attractive if it had, until she saw her admired friend embarking on such a tour. “At any rate, I'm much too busy now,” she announced, palpably relieved at finding an excuse. “Because if I were to go away at this point, the whole J.D.S. would probably fall to pieces, since I'm the only one who really wants to see it through. I'd hate to have anything like that happen just when we've got going on something really promising, wouldn't you?”

Francie agreed. It was true that
Charley's Aunt
needed careful nursing at this, the earliest stage of production. Moreover the committee had been hurried into hiring the town theater for a stated two nights some weeks in the future, so that they simply had to be ready by that time or postpone the play indefinitely. Chadbourne's eyes glowed as she talked about the responsibilities and trials of her position. “And while you're at it,” she suddenly said, “I mean while you're in Chicago, keep us in mind. We'll have to start getting the stuff together for the sets; in fact, that's much the hardest part of putting on a play, I've discovered—there's nothing to casting and rehearsing and all that. All this time I've been living in a fool's paradise, expecting Mummy would let us take our pick of her stock here in the store, but no such luck. She says we can't borrow anything that's any good at all, only the rejects in the basement. I think it's awfully mean of her.”

Francie said, “You little dumbbell, don't you know she doesn't own the place one hundred per cent? She couldn't be so high-handed as to let us use valuable stuff out of stock. The other owners would have a lot to say about that.”

“Oh, I know; she explained all that,” said Chadbourne discontentedly. “But I shouldn't think they'd notice. It's only two nights, after all.”

“There never was a more slapstick play than
Charley's Aunt
, except that nobody throws a custard pie,” said Francie. “It's bound to be sheer ruin to any props. Everything and anything's likely to get smashed.”

“In a good cause,” insisted Chadbourne. “Oh well, if we've got to provide our own, we've got to, I suppose. So you look out for something beautiful but fake, something that doesn't cost anything, at the Merchandise Mart. After all, you're property manager.”

Francie said, “Assistant property manager, and that's a long way from being boss. Bruce is the real props; we'd better let him do the deciding when the time comes. I'd be picking out all the wrong tables and chairs.” She turned and surveyed the polished pieces that stood around elegantly in Fredericks & Worpels's chaste gloom. “They do look lovely,” she said, “and terribly expensive.”

“Oh, they are!” Chadbourne assured her.

“Well, we couldn't aspire to this standard in the sets,” said Francie, “so you may as well forget about it.” She moved toward the door.

“That's just what makes it difficult,” said Chadbourne. “We've got to aspire to some sort of standard that's not too low, you know. That last act, for instance; it takes place in an English drawing room which is supposed to be absolutely beautiful, very swanky. Even in the first act, in Jack's chambers at Oxford, we mustn't let things look exactly shabby, because he's supposed to be living on a high scale. I still think Mummy's got the wrong idea. It would be magnificent publicity for the firm, I should think, to have ‘Furniture kindness of Fredericks & Worpels' on the program, the way they do about jewels and clothes and things on New York programs. What are you laughing at?”

“Your comparisons,” said Francie. “Imagine a little note, ‘Miss Fredericks's costume kindness of Mrs. O'Grady, upstairs over the dairy on Main Street'.”

Chadbourne laughed unwillingly. “It's a good idea just the same. I haven't quite given up hope of persuading Mummy to give; I can always set Lucky on her, and he's got much more pull with her than I have. Makes me mad sometimes.”

She spoke quite cheerfully and carelessly of Bruce. Francie's ears pricked as they always did at such mention; she went back to the Birthday Box thinking about her words and wondering what Penny's diagnosis would be of the situation. Lately, Chadbourne mentioned Bruce Munson calmly if at all. She didn't act like a lovesick girl any more, though Francie thought she had started out like that. To judge by appearances, the possibility of a romance between them could be counted out, Francie decided. Lovesick girls aren't so casual. Either they avoid any mention of the beloved's name, or they go out of their way to make up excuses to pronounce it for the joy of becoming embarrassed, of blushing and bridling and generally advertising their feelings without using actual words. In fact, Francie reflected, she herself would have been unable to mention Bruce quite so easily as Chadbourne had done—“And nobody could call
me
lovesick,” she thought triumphantly.

In the whirl of the last few hours before taking off, she was gratified to observe, there wasn't any time for brooding about Glenn or Bruce Munson, not even to the extent of making up long mental letters to Penny. And it wasn't as if she didn't have plenty of reason and aggravation. The night before they started, there was the first rehearsal of
Charley's Aunt
, which had finally been cast. Bruce was playing Jack Chesney, and that meant that he was on stage most of the time. Francie herself had begged off with the comparatively minor part of Ela Delahay, the orphan who doesn't even make an appearance until the last act. Her Birthday Boxduties gave her an excellent excuse for dodging anything in the play that was more like work. She was a little disappointed that Bruce wasn't playing Lord Fancourt Babberley. It wasn't a romantic part, but it was the lead. She felt he would do it well, and was sure that he, too, was disappointed in not having been chosen for it. However, the casting committee had thought otherwise. Bruce was tall and slender and good-looking; the man playing Lord Fancourt should be not too tall, so that he would be reasonably convincing in feminine masquerade, and their choice fell on a small, plump, fair-haired boy named Jimmy Wolfe.

No, there was no time to brood; there wasn't even time to answer Penny's latest letter. “I'll do that from Chicago,” Francie vowed, and set to work at the last minute, packing all her newest clothes. In spite of being a Jefferson girl, she didn't know Chicago very well, and certainly she wasn't familiar with the side of the city that Florence Ryan would be able to show her. They had taken a double room at the Sheridan.

In spite of strict instructions, Aunt Norah and Pop both got up very early to see her off, and Francie thought ruefully that they were as excited as she was. It showed what a dull life Pop was leading, in spite of the brave face he was putting on it, she decided; nobody would have thought that Fred Nelson, who in his day had been—well, a captain of industry, she reflected (never mind how banal that sounded, it
was
a fair description)—could get so worked up over a little buying trip that his daughter was making on behalf of an obscure retail store in Jefferson. It was sweet of him to feel that way, nevertheless. Ever since she had been old enough to think about it, Francie had been sorry for Pop's sake that she didn't have a brother, or that she hadn't been a boy. Now she began to realize that it wasn't really very important whether a child was boy or girl. The main thing was that a parent should be able to interest himself in his child's affairs. Pop couldn't have been more proud and happy if she had indeed been a son setting out to make a fortune. He and Aunt Norah made a great fuss about her breakfast, and getting her suitcase out to the car, and talking the plans all over again with Mrs. Ryan, and checking the address of the hotel and their return date and all the rest of it. Finally, rather late, they got started.

On the way they stopped at a place called Wiggintown, to call on the gentle old lady there who ran the Curiositie Shoppe, which turned out to be a candy store that sold what she called antiques on the side. They also dropped in on Ye Corner Cupboard, where Francie looked around with suitable awe at the genuine antiques and excruciatingly expensive porcelain and glass while Florence Ryan talked business with the proprietor and took notes on the names of firms he recommended for imported ware. This all used up more time, so that they had to hurry after their late lunch. In the ordinary way the drive from Jefferson would have brought them to Chicago by mid-afternoon, but it was past that before they got anywhere near the city. Mrs. Ryan said they would stop for supper at a roadhouse and get to the hotel in nice time to unpack and go to bed early.

“It's going to be a rugged week and you'll need some reserve sleep,” she said cheerfully.

They were just approaching Chicago's sooty outskirts when a car caught up with them and hooted impatiently, hanging on their rear. Francie was spelling Mrs. Ryan at the wheel, driving at as good a clip as was safe on the busy-road. She was surprised that anybody should want to pass, but like a good girl she moved over slightly and waved to the driver, indicating that he should go on. He didn't pass: he only continued to toot at great length.

“What
is
the matter?” demanded Florence Ryan indignantly.

Francie said, “I wouldn't know. Maybe our slip is showing. Oh, all right, if he won't, he won't.” She stepped on the gas, but the car behind stayed with her, now and then hooting plaintively.

“It's a familiar-looking car,” declared Mrs. Ryan at last. “Better slow up, Francie. It's probably somebody we know.”

Francie pressed the brake and the other car immediately turned out and shot past, the lone driver waving exultantly. He didn't stop, but went ahead and was soon lost in the distance. It was a blue car of sporty make, and the driver was Bruce Munson.

“For Pete's sake,” said Francie. “What's
he
doing down here?”