by Sylvia Waugh
“What if he shakes hands with me? He’s sure to want to shake hands. It’s something all humans do.”
“I’ve thought of a way round that. He’ll only think of shaking hands when he first arrives and maybe when he leaves. You will answer the door to him with a tea towel in your hands and a few soap bubbles on your fingers. He’ll be so apologetic about coming at an inconvenient time that the handshakes will be forgotten.”
“That leaves me,” said Joshua.
“Depends upon what time he arrives.” Appleby looked a bit stumped but wasn’t going to give up too easily. Soobie might come up with some good idea and she didn’t want that.
“If he comes during the day you can be out at work. You can pretend to work late and we’ll try to get rid of him before you arrive.”
“And where will I really be, considering that I am unemployed? Not in the attic, I hope. A whole day of Miss Quigley is too much to ask.”
“No, Dad, not in the attic. You might have to come in and sneaking down from the attic might be awkward. You’ll just have to stay quietly in the garden shed.”
“And if the fellow wants to look in the shed?”
“We’ll say we’ve lost the key and we’ll insist on finding it and he’ll say not to bother. And we’ll still insist. Then he’ll look embarrassed and say he can’t put us to all that trouble.”
Sir Magnus looked delighted.
“See how she pictures things! She’s the one with the ideas! She’s the one you’d be glad of if you were shipwrecked on a desert island.”
Appleby tried to look modest. Vinetta made a private resolve to tell Sir Magnus at some other time that he shouldn’t say things to add to Appleby’s conceit. The girl had a high enough opinion of herself to start with.
“But if the lad has to see me, how will we manage then?” Joshua looked worried. Even if he had been flesh and blood, meeting this stranger would have been an ordeal. Joshua was a very shy man.
“Mum will have to stitch you a black curly beard the way she made your white Santa Claus one. And even if it makes it look as if we are all weak-eyed, you’ll have to wear thick spectacles. I’ll buy a big horn-rimmed pair from the optician’s on the High Street. His shop is small and badly lit. I think it must be like that to make his customers feel that their eyes really do need testing.”
“That’s a point, though,” quibbled Joshua. “He’s sure to want to do an eye test before he sells you any glasses, especially thick ones.”
“No he’ll not,” said Appleby, producing yet another card from her sleeve. “I’ve had them before. He thinks I am in an amateur dramatic group. So he sells me odd pairs cheap.”
“And how does he come to have odd pairs?” insisted Joshua, looking at her suspiciously.
“I didn’t ask him. I suppose he might have samples or maybe some people order spectacles and don’t come back to claim them.”
“Silly man,” said Granny Tulip, looking at them all sharply over the tops of her own little gold-rimmed glasses. “He should charge a deposit. That would make people think twice about leaving stuff on his hands. You tell him that. Anyway, how about me, pet? You’ve missed me out – and a right fool I’d look in specs too big for my face.”
Appleby looked at her sharp-eyed little grandmother. Behind the clear lenses, the crystal beads that were her eyes were brilliant and almost magical.
“No problem,” said Appleby. “You’ll be busy all the time. You’ll be in the corner of the breakfast room, sitting at your desk with bills in one hand and a pen in the other. You won’t need to stand up. You won’t need to shake hands. If he stays any length of time, you can slip in the lounge and join in the conversation.”
“And what about my eyes?” The crystals glinted above the small reading glasses, and her mouth had a faint but definitely mischievous smile.
Suddenly Appleby realised what she had never known before. It was staggering.
“You can take care of yourself, Gran. If he looks into your eyes, he won’t know what’s hit him. He’ll be hypnotised. It won’t matter after that what he sees.”
“Clever girl!” exclaimed Magnus. “There, Tulip. It didn’t take her long to find you out!”
“Only forty years,” said Tulip drily. “We have made a bit of headway today, though. Now I have work to do, and if you don’t mind, or even if you do, I’m away to get on with it.”
Before they all went about their business, Joshua, dour and dogmatic as usual, managed to get agreement on one point. They would ignore Albert’s request for “a few lines”. The fellow obviously didn’t need any encouragement.
14
* * *
Joshua’s Bliss
AT THE BEGINNING of March, another meaningful, marvellous letter came for Joshua. Sydenham’s wanted him back.
“They want me back if I am available,” he said happily.
“And are you available after the shabby way they treated you?” asked Vinetta pointedly. “They did make you redundant, after all. Now they’re having to eat their words. Serve them right if you turn them down.”
Joshua looked uncomfortable. It would serve them right. They’d had three successful break-ins since he had left and goodness knows how many unsuccessful attempts. The electronic security system was expensive and well-known, so well-known that the criminal fraternity had learned how to cope with it. An empty warehouse is an empty warehouse. A machine is no substitute for a man.
“But a rag-doll is!” Joshua had chuckled as he read the letter.
Now, with Vinetta priming him to be spiteful, he wasn’t sure what to do.
“I did mention it to Father,” he said defensively.
“And what did he say?” asked Vinetta.
“Pretty much the same as you at first, but then he was afflicted by a pearl of wisdom and told me I mustn’t cut my nose off to spite my face.”
“In other words?” insisted Vinetta.
“I think he meant I shouldn’t be hoity-toity about the job if I’d be happier doing it. And I would be happy. I loved that job, Vinetta. There’s not been a day since when I haven’t missed it. My mug’ll still be there, my Port Vale mug.”
Vinetta still looked doubtful.
“Mother would like me to go back. I’d be making some money again. And I do hate sitting on the stairs brooding.”
Vinetta put her arm round his shoulder in a caring way. The two of them were sitting cosily in the kitchen. It was three o’clock on a bright but chilly afternoon. Out in the garden they could see Poopie pruning the roses whilst Wimpey was skipping vigorously on the crazy paving. From the breakfast room came the faint sound of music from Tulip’s radio. The rest of the family were out of sight and out of hearing, each wherever they wanted to be, doing whatever they wanted to do.
“Nobody makes you sit on the stairs,” said Vinetta. “You could sit anywhere in the house. You don’t have to take any notice of your mother, you know. She doesn’t mean everything she says.”
“It’s not just that,” said Joshua. “I like the routine, working at night, resting by day without feeling guilty.”
“Well,” said Vinetta, “I suppose you’re right. It’s up to you. If it’s what you want, then do it.”
Joshua gave a sigh of relief.
“I will. I will do it. I’m to start on Monday night. We’ll get Appleby to write a note confirming that I’ll be there.”
He turned the letter over and carefully read it again.
“Not a bad letter,” he muttered. “Better than some we’ve had. Better than bombshells from Australia.”
They had not written back to Albert Pond and in the weeks since his last letter they had had no news of his coming. They began to hope that he would not come at all.
Mind you, they had still done a fair bit in preparation. The thick net curtains had been bought and put up at the windows. The light bulbs had all been changed. Joshua had his horn-rimmed spectacles ready and Vinetta had her blue-tinted ones. They were still waiting for a pair like
bottle bottoms to hide Sir Magnus’s jet black eyes, but the optician had told Appleby that he would have a pair in two or three days’ time.
Appleby was called down to write the reply and she actually volunteered to take it all the way to the office for him.
“Better than posting it,” she said in an unusually cheerful voice. “You can’t always trust the post to be on time.”
Her timing was very good.
“Here,” said her happy parent, fishing in his pocket. “See if you can spend that.”
Appleby grabbed the three pound coins with a grin. She didn’t go so far as to say thank you, but to have her looking bright and friendly made a pleasant change.
“I think she’s improving,” said Joshua as his daughter left the room.
“Don’t let her hear you!” said Vinetta. “We’ve been hoping she’d improve for the past forty years. I feel sorry for her sometimes. She can’t help what she is. None of us can.”
Joshua made his way to the stairs again as soon as Vinetta started to put clothes in the washing machine. He sat there for an hour and a half, not so much brooding as peacefully meditating. In his fist he held the old pipe that was naturally never lit, but that fitted so comfortably in the palm of his hand that it was a real aid to cogitation.
“Yes!” he said at last with pure delight. “Of course! I won’t be able to have a beard sewn onto my chin if I’m working. Nobody in their world can grow a beard overnight. Charlie might just happen to notice it. I couldn’t take the risk.”
It was the perfect excuse. If there was one thing Joshua hated it was having a beard sewn on. It took ages to do, hair by hair, and it was far from comfortable. Kate had never intended him to be covered in whiskers. And it is best to leave things as they were meant to be.
15
* * *
Preparations
IN THE MIDDLE of March the weather changed to a lovely Spring of purple crocuses and brighter, generous days. It was almost possible to persuade oneself that Albert Pond would not arrive in April, that time at 5 Brocklehurst Grove could be induced to stand still. Googles lay in her pram on the back lawn for the first time that year. Her eyes shone and the sun gleamed on the perfect yellow curl that peeped out of her bonnet.
Poopie and Wimpey were taking turns sliding down the wooden chute. Vinetta was pruning the roses. Joshua, employed now and due to work that evening, was resting on the small sofa by the French window in the dining room. Even Tulip, at her desk in the breakfast room, had opened a window to let the air in. “You’d never think it was just March,” she said to Appleby when the latter came in dressed in her new light-weight yellow anorak, all ready to go shopping.
“Soon it will be April,” said Appleby innocently.
“Too soon,” sighed her grandmother. “I just wish to goodness it was all over with. I don’t know what people want traipsing about the world. Why can’t he stay where he belongs?”
“No use fretting, Granny,” said Appleby, perching herself on the edge of the breakfast room table. “If he comes, he comes. There’s nothing we can do to stop him. Meantime, we have made quite a lot of preparations. I’m getting Granpa’s spectacles today.”
“Take these to the post whilst you’re out,” said Tulip, handing Appleby three letters ready stamped. “And see if you can get a darker shade for my table lamp.”
“So Albert won’t see you,” teased Appleby in a voice as near to mockery as she dared with her grandmother. There was just that little bit of extra emphasis on Albert’s name, and omitting his surname sounded a shade too familiar.
The crystal eyes looked up at her sharply, but Tulip frowned and said no more. Appleby slid down from the table and looked in her purse.
“Granpa gave me ten pounds for his shopping but that might not be enough. Depends on how much Mr Sutton wants for the spectacles and how much the lampshade is. There are some other odds and ends too.”
Tulip looked at Appleby suspiciously, but took out her money box and handed over four one pound coins.
“You can settle up with your grandfather when you come back, but there’s the money for the lampshade. And I’ll want the change if there is any.”
Appleby made a face as she walked out of the room and she muttered, “Mean old bag,” under her breath.
“Did I hear you say something, madam?” Tulip called after her.
“No Gran, just cheerio. See you later. That’s all.”
“It had better be.”
Out in the street, Appleby swung along the pavement in fair imitation of a fashion model on a very slick, quick catwalk. Her red hair was combed into a cascade at the crown, but on a lower level it lapped her cheeks and brow like thick pointed petals. She was wearing her favourite green-framed sunglasses. Under the yellow anorak, she had a white sweatshirt and a pair of dark tartan trousers. Her cloth hands were covered with candy-striped, fingerless gloves from which her small, well-shaped fingers stretched out to false pink fingernails. Over her shoulder she carried a large pigskin bag.
“Are the specs ready yet, Mr Sutton?” she asked the old optician who was sitting on a high stool behind the glass counter in his gloomy little shop.
“Yes, Appleby, m’dear. I managed to get you a nice pair from the wholesaler’s rejects. Pebble glass and all. Just what you wanted, though I pity the actor who has to wear them. He’ll not be able to see much.”
Mr Sutton bent down to the drawer beneath the showcase and drew out a brown suede pouch from which he took a pair of black-rimmed, thick spectacles whose owner had died before he could collect them. Mr Sutton did not mention this fact to Appleby. Such a nice lass, it was a pleasure to help her out.
“Perfect,” said Appleby. “Just what we need for the play. How much do I owe you then?”
“Two pounds fifty will cover it,” said Mr Sutton.
“Are you sure?” asked Appleby, knowing perfectly well that the old man would not go back on this low price. It was a purely arbitrary amount. Payment for the spectacles had already been made in advance by the deceased.
From the opticians, Appleby, dawdling now, made her way to the outdoor market. There were lots of people there and it could have been a dangerous place, but Appleby had learned long ago that people at the market were all too busy looking at things, things and more things, to pay any attention at all to passersby. The only possible difficulty was in dealing with stall-holders. There was a knack to it. If you were ‘just looking’ you must not be one of those customers who goes up to the stall and handles the goods. That would surely be asking for trouble. You must ‘just look’ from at least a yard away. Then, when there was something you wanted, you must plunge in, hold it at eye level to create an eclipse, and ask the price. If it happened to be too dear, you had to startle the stall-holder by holding it out to him, obliging him to take hold of it whilst you strode away and hurried off elsewhere. If the price was satisfactory, you would say quickly, “I’ll take it.” Then all the stall-holder was interested in was the money you slid out of your purse. He would be looking down at the merchandise, putting it in a bag, and the top of his head would speak earnestly to the top of yours. It took years of practice, but Appleby had had years of doing just that.
“This one,” she said abruptly, holding the deep yellow lampshade between herself and the swarthy stall-holder. “How much?”
“Three pounds and forty pence only. Very reasonable.”
“I’ll take it,” said Appleby. Money and goods were exchanged and neither party in the transaction could have provided anything like a satisfactory description of the other.
Next stop, the Post Office. Not the little Post Office where everyone knew everyone else. The big General Post Office with wooden railings to keep the queue filing round in order. From the stand in the corner where there were collectors’ packets of foreign stamps for sale, Appleby dawdled to choose two large packets of assorted Commonwealth. Remembering how little she’d paid for the spectacles, she only hesitated briefly before picking out two m
ore packs, Europe this time. Her interest in stamp-collecting was of long standing and perfectly genuine. She got Granpa’s manuscript weighed and stamped. Then she posted Granny’s letters.
Soobie, meanwhile, had spent the day in the attic. The sunlight filtered through the dusty skylight onto a jumble of unsorted, unsortable junk. Who had rocked in that ancient rocking chair? Who had once played with that white-painted doll’s house? Where were their children’s children now? A fire-screen, a broken-stringed guitar, a cardboard carton brimful of old hats, an oval mirror in a wooden frame, a sturdy round table on a single stem with carved claw feet, a footstool with a torn tapestry cushion, and among and between these distinguishable things, a host of undistinguishable objects, some semi-wrapped in scruffy paper.
Soobie’s job, as he saw it, was to make the place slightly more habitable for the hours he and Googles and Miss Quigley might have to spend hiding there. There was Spring in the air and Soobie, truth to tell, felt like a bit of Spring-cleaning. A pile of old books with tooled spines caught his eye, but he disciplined himself to concentrate on the job in hand.
First of all he took an old piece of cloth and wiped the skylight, removing dust and cobwebs. The sun shone in more brightly. Then Soobie noticed for the first time that there was a floral printed curtain slung somewhat drunkenly right across the attic. Still sticking to his preconceived plan, he forebore to investigate and took one large, empty crate, a fortunate find, and began cramming as much small rubbish as he could into it, till between the round table and the rocking chair there was a space of cleared bare boards. If the rocking chair were well dusted and provided with a cushion or two from downstairs it would make a comfortable seat for Miss Quigley. He would manage with the footstool. Googles would be brought up in her carrycot. If she was upset, Miss Quigley could nurse her and rock her to sleep. Keeping Poopie quiet up there would be difficult, very difficult! He would have to go into the garden shed.