Miller’s Toy Department is an attractive place. It is stocked with toys of all sorts and sizes and, as we descend the stairs and the full beauty of its bursts upon our gaze, I am not surprised to hear an exclamation of rapture from my daughter.
“Oh, how lovely!” she cries, prancing forward. “Oh, how beautiful! Oh, it’s like Aladdin’s Cave!”
I am still talking to Mr. Miller and explaining our requirements when Betty seizes upon a doll’s bed and announces that she will choose her own present first, and this is it.
“No, you can’t have that,” I reply. “It’s too expensive—and you must choose the other presents first.”
Grace says why not let her have the bed? After all it is only ten and six and we can easily economise on the other presents, but I refuse to consider it for a moment.
“Seventy-six toys at an average of three shillings each,” says Mr. Miller, figuring out the sum in his note book.
Grace has now found a trumpet and says that it will be the very thing for Tommy Brown—whose father is in the band—she is sure he would like it.
I reply that we ought to keep to our programme and work up from the infants.
“Yes,” says Grace, “but just let’s put this aside for Tommy.”
“Well, can I have this bow and arrow?” enquires Betty, tugging at my coat. “Can I have it, Mummy?”
Grace says, “Why not let her have it and then we can get on?”
I agree and begin to choose rattles.
Betty disappears, but returns a few moments later and says “Look at this lovely tea set, Mummy! I think I would rather have this.”
Grace says, “Here’s a drum. Don’t you think it would be nice for the other Brown boy?”
I reply that I do not think it would. Mrs. Brown is expecting another baby shortly and will be driven quite mad if her offspring are provided with drums and trumpets.
Grace says, “Well, what about this box of soldiers?”
Betty says, “Oh Mummy, I would love a box of soldiers! Mummy, can I have a box of soldiers for my present?”
Grace says, “Wouldn’t you rather have a doll? Look at this sweet little baby doll, Betty!”
“Oh yes,” cries Betty ecstatically. “Oh yes, it’s just like Ian, isn’t it? Oh yes, I’ll have that.”
I enquire how much it costs, and Grace looks at the ticket and exclaims in horrified tones, “Hester, it’s sixteen and six!”
I go on choosing rattles and woolly balls.
“Look!” says Grace. “Here’s a box of bricks and it’s only two and eleven. Shall I put it aside for one of the six-year-old boys? . . . Oh no, it’s made in Germany! Here’s a little cart . . . Oh bother, it’s five and ninepence!”
“Look at this lovely Teddy Bear!” exclaims Betty. “Look Mummy, can I have this Teddy Bear?”
“No, it’s too expensive,” says Grace.
“Well, can I have a pedal motorcar?”
“No,” says Grace firmly. “No, you must choose something for other little girls. You remember what I told you, don’t you? Choose something that you think a little girl of seven would like.”
Betty looks round and flings herself upon an enormous stuffed donkey on wheels, “Oh, isn’t he sweet?” she cries. “Oh, she would love this donkey . . . and so would I . . .”
“It’s too expensive,” says Grace wearily.
“Well, what about a train?” enquires Betty. “Look at that lovely train in the box with three carriages. I’m sure she’d like that.”
“It’s for a girl,” says Grace.
“I know,” agrees Betty. “I know it is, but I’m a girl and that’s what I would like . . . or a pistol that fires caps.”
I leave them to fight it out between them and forge ahead through my list. I have finished the infants now and am looking at picture books and Teddy Bears for the four-year-olds when Grace returns to my side.
“I think we should let Betty have that bed,” she whispers. I reply firmly that Betty is not to have the bed. She is to have something quite cheap—or, at any rate, no dearer than any of the other children. Grace says she sees what I mean but she wouldn’t mind making up the rest of the money herself. “Betty really wants the bed,” says Grace earnestly.
I reply more firmly than before that Grace is not to do anything of the sort . . . it is very kind of her to think of it, but it wouldn’t do.
Grace sighs and says it’s very difficult indeed. All the really nice toys are so dear. She has chosen presents for the six-to-ten-year-old boys, but has exceeded the money allocated for that particular group. What had she better do?
I reply that she had better choose them again.
Grace says, “Couldn’t you economise on the babies?”
I reply that it is quite impossible to do so; I refuse to give the babies cheap celluloid rattles, as they are unsafe.
Grace admits this, and, after a moment’s thought, produces another plan. “We don’t need to give the babies anything,” she says delightedly. “They wouldn’t notice, would they? I mean Mrs. Mackay’s baby is only three months old.”
“The mothers would notice,” I reply. “The mothers would be frightfully insulted.”
“Mummy!” cries Betty. “I’ve quite decided. I want this uniform for my present. It’s a ticket collector’s uniform and it’s got a dear little punching machine for punching the tickets. Look at it, Mummy!”
“Hester,” says Grace. “Hester, d’you think this book would be suitable for the youngest Craven boy?”
By four o’clock we are only half way through our list, and are utterly exhausted. I suggest that we should go home to tea and complete the task some other day. Grace agrees to this suggestion at once, and says Tuesday afternoon would suit her . . . and she thinks we would get on quicker without Betty.
WEDNESDAY 4TH DECEMBER
It is eleven o’clock on a cold and windy night, and Tim and I are about to leave the comfortable warmth of our drawing-room fire and betake ourselves to bed, when suddenly the front door bell rings . . . and rings with a loud and imperative pull. The servants have gone to bed long ago, so Tim rises and goes away to answer it . . . and, shortly after, I hear angry voices in the hall and rush out to discover what is the matter.
Tim is talking to a strange man with Air Raid Warden equipment, and I gather that the conversation is not proceeding on friendly lines.
“He says we’re showing a light,” says Tim. “I thought you said our black-out was perfect, Hester.”
As I have taken every conceivable precaution to make our “black-out” satisfactory I am somewhat surprised at this information, and I explain that our own warden has been round the house several times and could find no chinks at all.
“I don’t know about that,” says the man. “That’s nothing to do with me. There’s been a swap round and I’m your warden now. It’s me you’ve got to satisfy, and I’m not satisfied.”
The somewhat hectoring tone is annoying Tim, and he enquires rather crossly what we can do about it at this time of night.
“That’s your lookout,” replies the man. “The black-out has to be complete or else you’ll be fined. You’re a danger to the community, that’s what you are.”
This is such a frightful accusation that I seize Tim’s arm, and say that we must do something at once.
“Yes, you’d better,” says the man. “You’d better come out and I’ll show you . . . can’t have lights showing, you know.”
Tim points out that it is extremely cold and windy, and that we are just going to bed, but the man refuses to accept this as an excuse and waits impatiently while Tim and I put on our coats.
“You needn’t come, Hester,” says Tim. “There’s no sense in both of us getting pneumonia . . .” but I reply firmly that as I am responsible for the black-out I must see where it has failed.
We follow the man round the house to the drawing-room window. It is dark and cloudy and we are met by a piercing wind which seems to penetrate to our bones.
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“There!” says the man, pointing to the drawing-room windows.
“Where?” enquires Tim.
(I feel inclined to echo Tim’s question, for I can see no light at all.)
The man replies that there is a chink of light, and that if Tim will kneel down on the path and put his face close to the glass he will see that a chink of light is showing at the left-hand top corner above the curtain . . .
“Kneel down on the path?” asks Tim, incredulously. “Do you mean to say you’ve brought us out here to show us a light—and we’ve got to kneel down on the path to see it?”
“It’s orders,” replies the man smugly. “There’s to be no lights at all.”
“It’s orders, is it?” enquires Tim in furious tones. “It’s orders that you’re to go round Donford and kneel down at every window?”
“Oh well . . .” begins the man, somewhat taken aback.
“But it isn’t well,” cries Tim, more furiously than before. “It’s very ill. You seem to have constituted yourself a sort of Gestapo. You’re exceeding your duties in a ridiculous way.”
“If you kneel down . . .”
“But I’m not going to kneel down,” declares Tim. “I’ve more respect for the knees of my trousers than to kneel down on a soaking wet path. Nothing will induce me to kneel down. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous. Do you realise the reasons for the black-out? The black-out is intended to baffle aeroplanes—not worms.”
“We’re supposed to—”
“Yes!” cries Tim. “You’re supposed to use your common sense, if you have any to use . . . look at that light over there!” he continues, waving his hand towards a square of brightly illuminated blind in a house down the road. “Look at that window! Why don’t you go and get those people out of their house? Why don’t you get onto them instead of crawling about on my path?”
The warden straightens himself and looks round. “Gosh!” he exclaims. “Gosh, that is a light! I’ll need to go over at once.”
“I should think you’d better,” agrees Tim in calmer accents. “That light could be seen for miles . . . I don’t envy you your job, but you needn’t carry it to extremes. We’ll stick up a bit of black paper tomorrow . . . here, have a cigarette!”
I cannot help smiling as the cigarette changes hands for the incident is so typical of Tim; he is always resentful of bluster and bullying, but can never be angry for long.
“You like happy endings, don’t you?” I ask, as we grope our way back to the house.
“Happy endings?” says Tim. “Oh, I see what you mean . . . Yes, I suppose I do . . . hate falling foul of people, really.”
MONDAY 9TH DECEMBER
I am busy ordering food when Annie comes and says that I am wanted on the telephone. Pick up the receiver expecting to hear Grace’s voice, but find to my surprise that it is Richard . . . Enquire anxiously where he is and whether anything is the matter. Richard says he’s in London, of course, and this is a trunk call, and why on earth have I been so long in coming to speak to him. I apologise humbly and explain that I had no idea it was a trunk call, but was under the impression that the call was being made by a friend of mine who is getting up a Whist Drive in aid of the Donford Spitfire Fund, and has been making my life a burden by ringing me up at inconvenient moments. Richard says people ought not to use the telephone for inessentials—he never does—but women seem to make a hobby of telephoning to their friends. Can’t help feeling that Richard has now wasted more time than I did, but decide not to point this out, for it would only lead to an argument and waste still more time. I enquire anxiously whether everything is all right; Richard replies that he does not know what I mean. I point out that we have been worrying about him and Mary. “Oh, you mean about the Blitz!” says Richard, “No need to worry. The old house is still standing. Mary is busy with canteens and all that sort of thing.”
So far Richard has given me no indication as to why he has rung me up, and I am about to ask him the reason for his unwonted extravagance when he suddenly comes to the point. “We’re going overseas”, says Richard, “so that’s why I’m here . . . Embarkation leave . . .”
“Oh Richard!” I gasp.
“Don’t fuss,” says Richard’s voice in matter-of-fact tones. “There’s no need for you to go up in the air. Mary is being very sensible about it. . . . no, I haven’t the slightest idea where we’re going, except that I’ve got to get a topee with a thingummy round it, so I suppose that means it will be hot.”
“A puggaree,” I put in.
“Yes,” says Richard, “but the point is I want to see you before I go, That’s why I rang up.”
I pull myself together and say that I will consult Tim and let Richard know, but Richard says there isn’t time. His leave is up on Thursday, so I must make up my mind whether I want to see him or not.
Of course I want to see him.
“Good,” says Richard. “You can travel south tonight and I’ll meet you in the morning. The train will probably be hours late, but I can find out—so long, Hester.”
The line goes dead; I lay down the receiver and look round the room. I feel as if I had been on a long journey. The room looks quite strange to me—strange with the peculiar strangeness of a familiar room visited after a long absence. I notice the shabby furniture and the large darn in the carpet with reawakened eyes. I say aloud. “I am going to London tonight,” and somehow or other the sound of my own voice carries conviction and I begin to believe it, but there is so much to do that I have no time to analyse my feelings . . . I am conscious only of a pleasant excitement stirring through my blood.
Tim says that he wishes he could come too, but this week is hopeless because Herbert is on leave. “I might manage the weekend,” says Tim thoughtfully.
“It would be lovely.”
“We ought to go to Winch Hall,” continues Tim. “Uncle Joe keeps writing and saying he wants to see me on business. I don’t know what he means, because the lawyer manages all his business affairs, but if we’re in the south I think we ought to go and see them. We could meet there and spend the weekend with them and come home together. How would that do?”
The express train to London stops on request at a small wayside station about five miles from Donford. Tim says he will take me over to Breck in the car, but we must start early because it is so dark.
It is very dark indeed, cloudy and wet; the road is narrow and winding and our dimmed headlights give us little help. To me the drive seems unending and fraught with dire possibilities, and I enquire more than once whether Tim can see.
“It was a cow,” I reply meekly as we shave past the obstacle and bump over a stone at the side of the road.
“A cow!” exclaims Tim, peering ahead and decreasing his pace from fifteen miles an hour to ten, “It couldn’t have been a cow. Nobody would leave a cow out on a night like this. Cows are kept in byres . . . at night . . . in winter . . . Isn’t there a road block here?”
A dim red light marks the road block and helps Tim to negotiate it successfully, and in another five minutes we arrive at Breck in good time for the train, only to learn that the express is two hours late. Tim suggests that we go home and return two hours later, but the idea does not appeal to me at all, for one thing the drive in the dark has been sheer torture, and for another—and this is an even more cogent reason—I dislike leaving home even for a few days, and am always upset when it comes to the last moment. Having keyed myself up and said good-bye to Winfield and taken leave of Betty, I shrink from the prospect of doing it again . . . in fact I feel that if I return home now I shall be unable to go to London at all.
I explain this to Tim, but he does not seem to understand, “I’d no idea you were so fond of Winfield!” he exclaims in surprise.
“I’m not,” I reply quickly. “I mean it isn’t exactly Winfield, it’s home . . . it’s wherever we happen to be . . .”
“Dash it!” says Tim, “Do you mean to tell me we’ve got to sit here for two solid hours? Th
ere isn’t even a fire in the waiting room.”
We stand upon the dark deserted platform arguing the point, and the keen wind whistling through the arches argues very forcibly on Tim’s side. I am about to give in and allow myself to be driven home, when a man appears out of the gloom. He is old and bent and is carrying an oil lantern, and he reminds me of one of the dwarfs in Betty’s beloved Snow White. He holds up the lantern and has a good look at us, and apparently we pass muster for he invites us to come and warm ourselves in the lamp room. It is a small bare cubby hole of a room, and it smells very strongly of paraffin, but a gorgeous fire is leaping and crackling merrily in the big old-fashioned fireplace. The old man brings a chair and wipes it before inviting me to sit down, and Tim lights a cigarette and heaves himself on to the table.
We are warm and comfortable now and there is no more talk of going home. The old man seems pleased to have our company. He sits on an oil keg near the fire and converses with us in an agreeable manner. He is the night-watchman, he says, and he is here every night all by himself and goes home to sleep during the day . . . He has been in the railway all his life—most of the time as a signalman—but he retired some years ago and started a small duck farm. Now the war has brought him back to the railway and he has taken the place of his nephew who has been called up for military service. I suggest that it must be a lonely sort of life, but he replies that he likes it fine, and he often has company—interesting folk—to share his hours of vigil. His accent is so broad that sometimes it is difficult to understand what he says, and we are obliged to ask him to repeat himself.
“There’s Poles comes here whiles,” says Cameron—for such is his name—“They fair mak’ me hairt-sick for they canna mak’ oot a wurrd I’m saying, nor me them . . . nice enough fellers they are, the maist o’ them. There was yin the ither nicht, he was an officer like yersel’ and no unlike ye eether, and he sat on yon table the way ye’re sitting the noo. He says tae me, ‘You talk slow and simple me understand.’ Sae then I talked slow and simple d’ye see—the way ye’d speak tae a bairn—and we got on fine. He’d been through a wheen o’ adventures, yon feller. It was like a story-buik, no less. He says tae me, ‘I speak English good, yes?’ Sae I nodded and said he was daeing fine, and he was too, and then he says, ‘But I want learn Scotch now’ . . . Aye, they’re grand chaps, yon Poles!”
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 25