Dolly's Mixture

by Dorothy Scannell

  But before we could remove to our new one down and three up, while the rest of the family were sunbathing in

  their lovely gardens, a dreadful thing happened to us, and I held my grocer Chas to blame for this catastrophe.

  A few weeks before I started dreaming about Epping, a new van salesman had called on us. He was, so Chas informed me, a representative of a large concern known to Chas. I had never heard of it. I thought we were admirably served by the wholesalers whose van salesman already called upon us, but, possibly because I was again taking on new lines, Chas ordered sausage rolls from this man. ‘Because you don’t eat shop sausage rolls,’ said Chas, ‘there is no reason to think our customers will not want them.’ The van salesman, worried that I might put Chas off buying his wares, assured us that these sausage rolls were sold ‘on sale or return’.

  To keep me quiet Chas ordered just a few when the man called two or three times each week, so that we never had any over. I felt sorry for the shop cats, for, if Chas did not sell his supply of pies when they were fresh (and he was fussy about this), the poor cats had to eat them. Maudie was a ‘pie girl’, however, and got very excited while Chas was crumbling up this feast for her.

  One Friday afternoon Chas was out delivering orders when a customer came in and bought our two remaining sausage rolls. I had purchased six only from the salesman that day and had saved four for a special order. I knew Chas would say when he returned, ‘No sausage rolls for sale this evening?’ and would again berate me for buying so few. The young wife to whom I sold my last two rolls was a serious girl. She did not often come into our shop and her serious look weighed heavily on me as I smiled at her lovely baby.

  Early on Monday morning two grave-looking officials entered our shop and requested all our stock of sausage rolls. We had none, sorry sirs, we would have none until Tuesday. Stupid Dolly, they were officials from the Public Health Department. The sausage rolls, or, rather, one of them, sold to my straight-faced lady on Friday, were mouldy inside. Chas paled and I wanted to faint straight away; I really trembled. ‘The customer, Mrs —, purchased them for her baby,’ said the official, making me feel even more craven. I might have poisoned a tiny child! Then I thought, indignantly, ‘Whoever would buy a shop sausage roll for a baby?’ and unfortunately I said this out loud, much to Chas’s annoyance and the officials’ surprise. Not one other customer of ours would have gone straight to the authorities. They would have known there had been a terrible mistake and would have come back to us first. ‘She has every right to go to the authorities,’ said noble Chas. ‘I only wish pies and such were dated by the food companies.’

  ‘Don’t worry, gel,’ said my butcher, ‘this council won’t sue you. You’ve got the reputation for good food. They’ll just say don’t do it again if you write a note and say you are ever so sorry.’ But I felt we could not apologise to the council, although we were sorry about the rolls, for we were the innocent party. I was sure the rolls had been obtained from a sale or return order from another shop. Why, I could prove by my invoices and the customers who had bought them that ours were sold the day we received them. So I wrote one of my famous letters : a solicitor could not have done better. I typed it beautifully, it was truthful and succinct, and I attached copy invoices to the letter.

  A week or so later I observed outside the shop a group of young mums deep in conversation. In the midst of this group, looking very important, was my sausage roll mum and she was showing to her friends an official-looking document. I was sure she had a victorious look about her. I went into the back room and said to Chas, ‘I am sure the council are going to take us to court because of those sausage rolls.’ ‘You do look on the black side at times,’ said Chas. ‘We’ll hear no more of that affair, I do assure you.’

  That morning, to the shop came a policeman – we were busy serving at the time. This cheerful-looking chappie in blue carried in his hand an official-looking document. ‘Mr Charles William Scanned?’ he said to Chas. ‘No,’ said my brave Chas. ‘Well,’ said the policeman, with a broad grin (obviously happy in his work), ‘will you be kind enough to give this to him when he returns?’ He handed Chas the summons and went happily away. ‘Why did you say you were not he?’ I said crossly to Chas, feeling in some way he had been a cowardly Judas to himself. ‘I don’t really know,’ said my darling. ‘I just had the feeling I didn’t want to accept the message.’ The court to which we had been summoned to appear was just across the road at the Town Hall. ‘You’ll feel at home there,’ I said to Chas.

  But he didn’t have to. Out of the blue Chas was offered an office job with an international food combine, which he decided to accept, and suddenly Dolly took his place as the criminal food seller. If I’d taken the good advice I had received and said ‘We are ever so sorry, we promise it will not occur again,’ the council would probably not have bothered to proceed. But now my blood was up, it was like the Winslow case again. I discovered from the authorities that a council could sue either the retailer or the wholesaler, whoever they thought was at fault. Well, had they read my letter? They had the invoices. I was of the opinion the wholesaler should have been sued. No, I thought, they will not take on the big boys but, of course, we in turn could sue the wholesaler. I was going to be proved right if it was the last thing I did. I would not allow it to be said that we had knowingly sold food dangerous to the consumer. The big boys firm had ‘tested’ the sausage roll and had pronounced it ten days old!

  Then followed weeks of trailing round to various solicitors, but they all seemed so busy, and not one was interested in my case. They seemed to think either that I was wasting their time, or that I was a bit strange. Some thought my determination had its amusing side. At last I heard of a solicitor who would take all cases. His office was in a large house in the East End, the strangest solicitors’ premises I had ever visited. Clients sat in the passages and even on the stairs. At last my turn came to see the chief solicitor. He had removed his coat as the day was hot and was sitting in shirt and braces at his desk. The room smelt of cooking and cabbage. He was picking his teeth, a large, friendly Jewish man. I told him my troubles. He looked shattered. At last, here was my salvation. He was obviously a shrewd fighter. Justice would be done. ‘Look, lady,’ he said in gutteral tones, with a shrug of the shoulders, ‘I don’t usually give free advice, but for you I’ll make the exception. Pay the fine with a smile. Everybody does.’ Everybody! I tried to explain the position to him again, but he said wearily, ‘Don’t waste my time, dear, I won’t take your money, it would be like....’ I think he said ‘taking candy from a baby’, but I was too defeated to hear.

  At long last, in the West End of London I found a solicitor who would be ‘happy’ to fight for me. He insisted, I must go on. He could see at a glance the principle of the thing. I was overawed. No waiting at his office. Here I rang the bell at a beautiful house in a lovely square, and was greeted by a ravishing creature like a model from Vogue. Tea was brought in fragile cups and my feet sank into the thick-pile carpet.

  My head filled with visions of barristers in wigs, with me in the witness box pointing the finger of truth at the large concern, I arrived home. Britannia was rampant as I told Chas about my successful mission. He took it rather apathetically, I thought, and then Susan’s husband called. I told him all about my visit to the lovely house. He sat me down quietly and told me what the case would cost if I went on with it to the bitter end. I had not been branded a criminal. It would be heard at a magistrate’s court. My stand would establish nothing. I would be just a number to them. Was it worth relinquishing my chance of going to Epping to be near my little granddaughter?

  I decided not to fight the case and simply to say how sorry I was about what had happened and how relieved I was that no one had eaten the sausage roll. The day dawned at last and I arrived at the court. No sign of activity. The wrong address had been typed on the summons. I should have been at Euston, some way away, an hour ago. Oh God, I thought, now I shall be charged with contem
pt of court. I hailed a taxi and fumed when we were held up in traffic. I tore like mad into the building and found the ante-chamber, a large room crammed with mothers and children and odd-looking young males. I felt very strange and far away. My face had turned to ice. I explained to a young policeman why I was late and why I was there at all. He was so kind, he was like a son to me. He insisted that, before I thought of anything else, I must have a glass of water. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I shall be back in a moment. Now then, you must not worry, you are not a criminal, don’t upset yourself unnecessarily. I will explain to the clerk and perhaps he will arrange for you to be seen as quickly as possible.’ He went off with a last look of concern for me and I gazed round the room. How could I have been so concerned with my case and think it so enormous a problem? Mothers here had so much to worry about. My heart went out to them, they looked so helpless.

  Back came my favourite son. ‘Your case will be heard next, provided you feel well enough.’ Yes, I was fine. Now I was eager for retribution. I entered the court, a large room panelled in oak. On a dais at the end of the room, underneath the arms of the borough, sat the magistrates. I sat next to a black-robed man in the well of the court. To the side of it, sitting on a high chair, was my accuser. I thought, Oh, she’s had her hair done, doesn’t it look lovely! It was all high and shining and black. I wished my hair looked like that and I scragged mine behind my ears. On a high table sat a square, transparent box – was it tied with a ribbon? It was difficult to make out from where I sat and I’d left my specs at home. Someone has given the lady magistrate some flowers, I thought and, as I gazed at the lady, I wondered who could have worked up such romantic feelings about her. Obviously she was proud of the offering and had brought it to court to show her fellow magistrates.

  Suddenly I heard my name called and one magistrate, who appeared to be ‘head boy’, said, ‘Is this the sausage roll you sold to Mrs —?’ I couldn’t see any sausage roll and I said, ‘I hope not. After this long time it’s probably run off.’ The magistrates held a whispered conversation; obviously they had not heard my stupid reply. Then I realised that the sausage roll was ‘caged’ in the transparent box. The magistrate repeated the question. ‘Oh, I thought they were orchids for Miss Blandish,’ I muttered. They gave up. Fined £5, plus £2 expenses, plus £1 for the witness. Well, at least that will pay for her hair-do, I thought. I wrote my cheque for £8 and left. ‘You see, it wasn’t so bad, was it?’ said my dear young policeman. ‘It all happened so fast,’ I said, ‘I wanted to say so much.’ He thought this was funny. However, I had taken a letter with me suggesting that the authorities do all they could to have perishable food date-stamped. I wonder if they even read it?

  The queue at the bus stop consisted of the guilty party (me) the Town Hall solicitor, the Public Health official and my lady accuser. No one spoke. It seemed we had not met before. The sky was ominously black. We looked up worriedly. There was no shelter. None of us had coats. As the heavens opened up in a freak storm, I hailed a solitary taxi, climbed in and gazed out of the little back window at my three, now ex-, acquaintances. They looked a sorry sight. When I related my harrowing adventures to Chas that evening he said, reproachfully, ‘I do think you might have offered the other three a lift.’ ‘Do you know,’ I said, ‘it just did not occur to me!’ By the end of the case I had lost nearly two stones in weight.

  Chapter 20

  ‘My Old Man Said Follow The Van’

  When we finally put a deposit on our new house, I told Ade we would no longer be neighbours. She already knew I wanted to move away from the shop and said she didn’t blame me, it was a rotten life for me, really. Now that Chas had a job we could afford to sell the shop. I suggested that Ade think of moving, too, now that the twins were working a long way from North London and Johnny’s firm was closing down. Benny was now a clerk in the City, so that would be all right travelwise, and with her trade as a skilled machinist she, too, could work anywhere. ‘I’ll see you settled first, Dolly, and then I’ll have a talk with Benny boy.’

  Ade came to see the house one day when I had an appointment to choose the decorations, etc. I introduced her to the builder. He was charming to her (after all, he had many houses as yet unsold) but I thought she looked at him as she did at the market shopkeepers. He was very happy, for I didn’t even open the wallpaper books. All paint and walls to be white, please. He gave us a book of fireplaces. The prices were astronomical, but who had ever heard of a house without a fireplace? Ade looked. Ade said, ‘Don’t fall for these prices, Dolly. Underneath the arches at Hackney there’s a place where they make up any fireplace you want. You can draw your own if you like, and [looking hard at the builder] it won’t cost you anything like these.’ ‘That’s all right, madam,’ said the builder loftily, ‘but I must have my ten per cent, for I get this on fireplaces ordered from the this book.’ The builder was called away by his foreman. ‘Crafty sod,’ said Ade, ‘but he’s got you in a cleft stick there, Dolly, if you want the house. Still, I’d do him one in the eye – I’ll come down the arches with you.’

  ‘Turquoise bathroom, please.’ ‘Certainly, madam, green.’ Ade knew her colours. ‘Turquoise’s not green.’ ‘Well then, blue.’ ‘It’s not blue, either.’ ‘Very well then, turquoise.’ He printed the word in large letters on his notepad. ‘Now we come to the extras.’ Ade looked a bit surprised; ‘What did you buy, the house or the framework?’ We followed the builder (who, incidentally, looked like a lawyer or doctor, not like a man who had ever soiled his hands with cement) on the grand tour.

  ‘What kitchen cupboards will you require?’ Necessities are extras too, then?’ This from an amazed Ade. The builder turned his back on her. I decided on cupboards, for, as the builder said, a kitchen is a woman’s domain; he, a mere man, would not presume to install cupboards! ‘A kitchen, I often think, is a woman’s heaven.’ ‘Heaven!’ screamed Ade. ‘Well, you only believe in giving a woman a tiny bit of it.’ It was a tiny kitchen, to be sure; both Ade and I had enormous kitchens in North London, this one was like a doll’s house kitchen. Still, I was going all posh in the future, no more sitting round the kitchen table, we’d always eat in the dining-room. ‘Well, you couldn’t swing a cat round in this kitchen,’ insisted Ade. ‘I am sure Mrs Scannell is not the sort of lady to indulge in such cruel activities.’ The builder roared at his joke. We let him laugh alone. ‘I can do something as a special favour to you. I can have the door swung outwards, with no extra charge to you.’

  Ade knew Dolly would get carried away by the builder’s generous gesture and managed to restrict me to ordering only one shaving-point. She reminded me that Chas had sworn never to use an electric razor, his skin was too sensitive, and William was starting to grow a beard. She probably felt she was being too interfering and, because she quietened down, I fell for an extra, a shower, together with shower curtains with Angel fishes on them. I don’t know why the builder suggested shower curtains decorated with fishes, although I had mentioned, in passing, that turquoise was the colour of the sea. Ade had been persuaded by the builder to go with the foreman to view some more houses he was erecting, and it was while she was gone that I fell for the major part of my extras. The builder’s men (all craftsmen, said the builder) would fix my curtain-rails so that, with one gentle pull on an ivory-tasselled contraption, the curtains would glide noiselessly across the whole length of the room. I could see Dolly, the chatelaine, impressing her guests with this languorous gesture.

  At the builder’s solicitous enquiry as to whether Chas was a gardener, I arranged for a potting and planting annexe, complete with sink and running water, to be attached to the garage in the garden. The builder dashed off before Ade returned. She was horrified I hadn’t asked, ‘How much?’ ‘You remember that film we saw, Dolly, wasn’t it Cary Grant in Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House?’ Indeed I did remember it, too late to gain experience from it. Mr B. lived with his family in a crowded New York flat and, deciding to move out to the suburbs, had worked ou
t what he could just afford for the building of his new dream house. His builder was the typical ‘extras’ man and, before Mr B. realised it, he was mortgaged beyond the hilt. The workmen were overheard to say, ‘These New York millionaires!’ His wife, very particular as to the special colours she required – ‘Not the stark hospital white, but a warm, rich, creamy white’ – sent for a packet of best butter to show the painters, who listened attentively to her special requests. When Mr and Mrs B. had left the site, the painters wrote down, ‘Yellow, red, green, etc.’ When the house was nearing completion the builder asked Mr B., ‘Did you want the lintels rabbeted?’ Mr B., now so anxious as to money, thinking ‘rabbeted’ sounded an expensive item, said, no he wouldn’t have anything rabbeted. ‘Tear out all the rabbeted lintels,’ shouted the builder to his foreman (after Mr B. had left, of course). I felt like Mrs Blandings when the bill for the extras arrived. Chas’s mouth fell open, but he paid up like a lamb, and never, ever reproached me for failing to ask, ‘How much?’