The Mennyms

by Sylvia Waugh

  Sir Magnus gave his granddaughter a look of deep admiration. It had the makings of a classic pretend. But he felt it was risky to let her go any further.

  “Young man’s stuff,” he said deprecatingly. “No good living in the past.”

  “But what’s a knighthood?” persisted Poopie, still looking eagerly from beneath his yellow fringe like a little dog hot on the scent of a bone.

  “The question is irrelevant,” snapped Granpa. Had the unfortunate Poopie been within range of the purple foot he would undoubtedly have been thumped against the wall.

  “What is relevant,” he continued quickly, “is this young man’s proposal to pay us a visit. How do we stop him?”

  “Ignore the letter,” said Soobie. “If we don’t answer he’ll assume that we haven’t received it, or that, if we have, we don’t want to know.”

  “We do not know what he would assume,” insisted Sir Magnus, “and even if he made either of the assumptions you suppose, that would not stop him from dropping in unexpectedly one of these days.”

  “He doesn’t sound like the sort of young man who would come without warning,” said Vinetta anxiously. “He sounds too sensitive and considerate.”

  Sir Magnus would not be deflected.

  “We must assume, Vinetta, that unless we dissuade him, there is every possibility that he will come. So how do we dissuade him?”

  Appleby, without any by-your-leave, snatched the letter from under Granpa’s hand. She had read it before. They all had. Now she read it again more slowly and more carefully.

  “We need,” she mused, “an unanswerable excuse for being absent from home for the whole of November.”

  “We’ve never been absent from home in our lives. We’re certainly not going to start now,” growled Soobie.

  “We don’t really need to go,” explained Appleby slily. “The absence will only be a pretend. Say we’ve booked a holiday in Cornwall. And, of course, we will omit to tell him precisely where.”

  “A holiday in Cornwall in November!” scoffed Soobie. “Your pretends aren’t up to their usual high standards, Apples. I could do better than that and I don’t even like pretends.”

  “All right, young fellow,” snarled Granpa, “if you’re so clever, do better.”

  Appleby gave Soobie a look of jealous fury. Just let him dare do better, the look said. Then, just as the atmosphere was becoming unbearably tense, and the purple foot was itching to kick someone or something, Appleby was visited by inspiration.

  “I know,” she said. “It’s easy. We are going to fly to Canada on a month’s visit to our cousins, Satty and Lodie. They have just had a new baby and we are all going over for the christening.”

  “And who, may I ask, are Satty and Lodie?” demanded Soobie in a heavily sarcastic voice.

  “Don’t you ever listen to anything I say? I’ve just told you. They are our cousins. We haven’t seen them for three years. Satty married Lodie in London three years ago. It was a real society wedding. We were all there. The twins were much smaller then and Lodie had them as flower-girl and page-boy. They wanted me to be bridesmaid but I couldn’t because, even at twelve, I was taller than Lodie and I thought it would look silly. Googles wasn’t even born then.”

  “Hold on! Hold on!” cried Granpa. “I don’t think we need a whole family history. Still, the story does sound quite probable. You can write the letter, Appleby. I’ll check it for errors and sign it. You can look on it as a piece of English homework. Geography too, for that matter. Whereabouts do they live in Canada?”

  The purple foot had relaxed and was swinging carelessly and nearly touching the floor. Granpa, for once, was sitting bolt upright unsupported by his pillows and cushions. His attitude expressed his enthusiasm.

  Without the least hesitation, Appleby said, “Manitoba.” It was such a beautiful sounding name.

  “Right,” said Granpa, with a twinkle in his black button eyes, “see what you can find out about Manitoba before next Friday.”

  Friday was Appleby’s day for lessons with Granpa. She didn’t know whether to be vexed or pleased.

  “And you, Soobie,” Granpa began, but he got no further than that. Soobie jumped up off his velvet cushion and resisted the temptation to hurl it at somebody.

  “I’m going,” said the blue Mennym forcefully, his silver eyes glinting. “I’ve had enough of this. You can make fools of yourselves if you like, but you’re not going to make a fool of me.”

  Joshua, without moving from his chair, leant over and opened the door to let Soobie escape. As he strutted out, his father gave him a look of deep accord. Joshua’s amber lozenge eyes hid more than they revealed. He usually kept his grizzled head down and his chin tucked into his neck, a bit like a monk bent over his breviary. All he ever wanted was to be left in peace. Was that too much to ask?

  Tulip put down her knitting and looked round the room after Soobie had left.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what this family’s coming to,” she scolded. “We can never have a conference without somebody walking out in a huff.”

  “Somebody is nearly always Soobie,” said Appleby spitefully, “and I wish he’d stop calling me Apples. He knows I hate it.”

  Joshua made up his mind to speak, though it went against the grain.

  “Let’s call it a day,” he said firmly. “Appleby can write the letter. I think it should come from me rather than Father. The young man obviously hasn’t worked out our ages and we don’t want complications in years to come. In their terms, Father could easily be a hundred and ten.”

  10

  * * *

  A Letter to Australia

  Dear Albert,

  I hope you don’t mind if I call you by your first name. You sound so friendly, I’m beginning to think of you as part of the family. We all are.

  My father received your kind letter and showed it to us. We would, of course, be delighted to meet you. I am writing this on behalf of us all, from the oldest to the youngest.

  Unfortunately, at the time you are going to be in England, the house will be closed up completely. The whole family is going on a long overdue visit to our cousins in Manitoba. They have just had their first child after three years of marriage. We are flying out there next Tuesday to be present at the christening. It has all been arranged for weeks. We will not be returning to Brocklehurst Grove till Christmas, by which time you will doubtless be back home after your trip.

  Coincidence is strange, isn’t it? We haven’t even been away on holiday for the past three years. Yet here we are, booked to go, just at a time when we would have much preferred to be here to meet you.

  There is much to be said for family life, Albert. You say you have no intention of marrying yet. Let me, in a fatherly way, advise you. I married Vinetta seventeen years ago and it is the one step I have never regretted. Find yourself a nice girl and settle down. Thirty is just the right age for a man to marry. I’m sure there must be some really pleasant girls out there who would, as they say, fall for your charms as we already have. You sound a thoroughly agreeable lad.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Josuha Mennym

  The reluctant Joshua was made to copy Appleby’s effort out in his painstakingly slow hand. He was no writer. When it came to signing his name at the end, he was relieved, of course, but he felt very uncomfortable.

  “It doesn’t sound like me,” he grumbled.

  “It doesn’t need to,” said Vinetta patiently. “He will never know what you sound like – which is just as well considering how little you have to say for yourself. Appleby’s made a good job of that letter. I like the bit about marriage.”

  “You would,” growled Joshua.

  “Don’t you see?” explained Vinetta. “If he marries he’ll be more settled. He’ll not want to travel the world in search of friendly Mennyms.”

  “Or unfriendly ones,” said Soobie, on his father’s side as usual. “Let’s get the thing posted and be done with it.”

  It was
put into an airmail envelope, stamped and sealed down.

  “I hope we’ve put enough stamps on,” worried Vinetta.

  “Of course we have,” said Appleby with total assurance. She knew about these things.

  “I’ll post it on my way to the Market,” said her mother, anxious as usual to have everything done and dusted.

  “No!” said Appleby hastily. “I’ll post it. Posting letters is my job. I’m going to the Post Office this afternoon in any case.”

  She seized the finished letter and thrust it into her jeans pocket.

  “Mind what you’re doing with it,” fussed Vinetta, “and don’t forget to post it.”

  “I never forget anything,” said Appleby airily. “Just ask Granpa.”

  Wimpey had been watching them quietly and dreamily.

  “If we write to him he might write to us again. He might send us something for Christmas. I would like a koala bear. Granpa says koala bears live in Australia.”

  “Silly,” mocked Poopie, “you can’t send animals through the post. It would die.”

  Wimpey blushed but looked cross at the same time. She flung her fair curls back and glared at her brother.

  “I didn’t mean a live one,” and, before Poopie could make any jokes about dead ones, she added, “I meant a toy one like my teddy bear.”

  11

  * * *

  Joshua’s Christmas Job

  TULIP WAS DOING the accounts. She always sat at a little old desk in the corner of the breakfast room to do this very important job on the third Thursday of every month.

  Joshua had been out of work for nearly four weeks. Magnus was waiting for payment for three of his articles on The Early Battles of the English Civil War, a subject in which he specialised. Vinetta had sold four children’s dresses to a small local dress shop, but it was, as usual, on a sale-or-return basis. So until the dresses were actually sold she would receive no money. Harrods would have only just received the three cardigans Tulip had sent them. They were prompt payers, but nobody pays by return post. There was still money in the bank, but Tulip was very careful. She liked each month to meet its own expenses. She also refused to regard Joshua’s redundancy money as income. It was a lump sum, wasn’t it? Well, lump sums should be put away for special outlay, not for the bits and pieces of everyday living. That was how they managed, over the years, to buy television sets, a typewriter for Magnus, a more modern sewing machine for Vinetta, new overcoats for Joshua, good toys for the children at Christmas and birthdays, and many other expensive items.

  Tulip added up the figures and frowned. So much had gone on gas, electricity, wool, thread, cloth, cleaning materials. And this month there was the telephone bill. Calls were strictly business, but if appearing in person is fraught with difficulties, the telephone is not a luxury but a dire necessity. A rag doll on the telephone sounds just like anybody else.

  Tulip looked thoughtful. She pressed the brass bell on her desk. It was meant to summon Joshua, but it did not often produce the desired effect.

  “Dad!” shouted Soobie from his usual seat in the lounge, “can’t you hear the bell? Gran wants you. It’s the third Thursday.”

  Joshua was sitting on the stairs feeling bored and sorry for himself. He liked going out to work. He was used to going out to work. It made the time at home so much more pleasant.

  “I’m coming,” he called. “I’m coming. No need to go on about it.”

  He went into the breakfast room where his mother was still irritatingly tinkling away at the little bell as if it were the triangle in the orchestra.

  “Stop that, Mother,” snapped Joshua. “I’m here now. What is it you want?”

  Without a word she thrust the accounts at him. He glanced at them in a puzzled fashion.

  “Looks all right to me,” he said with his usual brevity and ran his fingers through his dull brown hair. It was well made hair. It even had grey streaks at the temples and above the forehead.

  Tulip gave her son a withering look. Her crystal eyes could look very glassy on occasions.

  “The sums are all correct,” she said drily. “Arithmetic is one of the things I do well. But even to your unpractised eyes it should be clear that we have done badly this month. More out, less in, is not satisfactory.”

  Joshua looked at her, still not enlightened.

  “I think you have recuperated for long enough, Josh,” said Tulip at last. “Here.”

  She passed him the previous night’s copy of the local paper, opened at the Situations Vacant and with the appropriate vacancy circled in red. She felt that she had to be cruel to be kind.

  Joshua read it.

  “They want a Santa Claus at Peachum’s,” he said flatly.

  “They’ll take you like a shot. Get Vinetta to stitch the white whiskers on again. That’s why they liked you the last time. Real whiskers are much better that those that just hook on round the ears.”

  Joshua looked very reluctant.

  “I don’t like the job,” he said, “and that’s the truth. I didn’t like it last time. I was glad I was working when they sent for me the following year. I don’t like the whiskers and the bushy eyebrows.”

  “But you do like the money,” explained his mother, “and we need more coming in than we have at present. You used to be a hard worker. Now you just seem content to sit on the stairs with your chin in your hands. It’s not good for you – and it’s not good for the rest of us either.”

  That stung. Joshua felt angry at the unfairness of her words, but he did not argue.

  “I’ll go,” he said coldly. “Get Appleby to write the usual letter. I see you’ve made your mind up.”

  “She’ll remind them that you did the job before and how pleased they were. You won’t even have to have an interview. They’ll just make you an offer in the post.”

  “I suppose so,” said Joshua with no enthusiasm at all.

  Tulip sighed.

  “If I’d been a man,” she said, “I’d have loved being Santa Claus. Seeing all those children happy with their Christmas wishes, clutching their little toys. And you couldn’t find a job where you would be better hidden. The beard, the hood, the bushy brows and the red cheeks are a perfect disguise.”

  Joshua got to the door before he muttered, “Greedy little brats with loud voices and sticky fingers.”

  “I may have cloth ears,” said his mother tartly, “but I did hear that. Not all humans are nasty and grasping. The very young are still full of wonder and well you know it!”

  He did know it. As he sat beneath the tree in Peachum’s, nice mums with nice children came to see him as if they all believed he was real. Cross mums with fractious children came too, but they were not the majority by any means.

  One wet day, three figures wearing thick raincoats with hoods pulled well down over their heads, even inside the shop, came gleefully to the grotto.

  “Now,” said Santa to the small boy who sidled up to him, “what can I bring you this year?”

  Poopie giggled discreetly into his collar.

  “I want a train set,” he mumbled.

  “Speak up, son,” said Joshua, putting one arm round the lad’s shoulder.

  “I want a train set, Dad,” laughed Poopie, looking boldly up at Joshua so that he could see the face inside the hood.

  “Get out of here,” hissed Santa with unSantalike venom. “Do you want us all to be found out?”

  He looked at the little girl in red who stood behind Poopie and realised that it was Wimpey. The tall, thin teenager with her hand on Wimpey’s shoulder could only be Appleby.

  “All it needs now is Soobie,” groaned Joshua.

  “That’ll be the day!” mocked Appleby. “He’s never left the house since . . .”

  Whatever Appleby was going to say was interrupted. A real child standing behind her was growing impatient and began to push. With great presence of mind, Joshua thrust tissue paper parcels into the twins’ hands, blue for Poopie, pink for Wimpey, and ushered them on.
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  “Well, little lad,” said Santa to the dour-faced five-year-old who had done the pushing, “what would you like me to bring you this year?”

  “A monster,” said the child, “a proper one with goggle eyes and a battery.”

  His mother smiled nervously at Santa’s hood.

  “I’ll see what we can do,” said Santa diplomatically. “Just wait till Christmas morning, but in the meantime, ho-ho, what have we here for you in my barrel of fun?”

  The child dipped right down into the barrel and rummaged in the bottom as if all the best presents might be hidden.

  “Blue for a boy, pink for a girl,” said Santa when the lad emerged with a pink parcel, which he hastily threw back and set about diving again and rummaging. Not one of the nicer children!

  That evening Joshua fumed at Appleby.

  “Don’t you ever, ever do that again. Do you want me to lose my job?”

  “There was no harm done,” said Appleby. “We’re entitled to a bit of fun. We are not all like you and Soobie.”

  “More’s the pity,” said Joshua.

  He sat down to his make-believe dinner and drank without relish his pretend mug of tea. They were entitled to a bit of fun. Rag dolls have as much right to Christmas as anybody. Joshua’s anger left him and he felt saddened by his thoughts.

  Soobie, the blue Mennym, sat still in his chair by the window and, thinking on what had been said, cried inside himself because they were not human and no amount of pretending would ever make them so.

  “We can always pretend,” he said at last, bitterly and grudgingly, but with determination. “We will be having the tree and presents as usual. At least the presents will be real.”

  “There’s a cardboard turkey at the store,” said Joshua. “Nobody’ll miss it. I’ll sneak it home on Christmas Eve.”

  “Are you sure that’s all right?” asked Vinetta anxiously. “Sounds a bit dishonest to me.”

  “Of course it’s all right,” said her husband. “It’s the sort of thing they throw away when the holiday is over.”