by Sylvia Waugh
26
The Sorrows of Soobie
AFTER THE NIGHT ride, and all that followed it, Soobie plummeted into a gloom so deep that nothing would arouse him. The old life was gone, forty years fled away. The new life had given him one adventure which had ended not in triumph but in bitterness and gall. Vinetta had never ‘had a word with him’ about his rudeness to his grandmother. After the hurtful things Tulip had said she did not feel called upon to do so. That was without even knowing that her beloved son had heard every word.
Tulip had been very frosty for a couple of days, but then her conscience had caught up with her and she was ashamed of some of the things she had said in the heat of the moment. She did not apologise to Vinetta, but she allowed their relationship to return to normal. An unspoken, but well-understood, way of saying sorry.
And all this time, Soobie stayed in the library. It was a small room full of books. Bookshelves covered three of its four walls. In the middle of the fourth wall was a large dormer window, fastened in the middle, that went from the ceiling nearly to the floor. It was curtained in dark green velvet. There were no net curtains and whoever lay on the green plush sofa that faced this window would be able to see far to the west, if he looked. Soobie did not look. He lay on the sofa and he stared, uncaring and unseeing.
“Soobie never comes out of the library now,” said Wimpey to Poopie. “I mean – he never ever comes out. He doesn’t even go up to bed.”
She had braved the long, twisting passage and peeped in once or twice to see her brother, but he had just lain there and taken no notice. Once she had ventured to go up to the sofa and look right in his face. He scowled and Wimpey had retreated.
“It’s up to him what he does,” said Poopie.
“No it’s not,” said Wimpey. “He looks dead miserable lying there. I don’t want him to be miserable.”
“He doesn’t care whether you’re miserable or not. He’s not worth bothering about.”
Poopie, truth to tell, was cross with Soobie. He was always cross with anyone who made life feel uncomfortable. He was too young to know his own reasons properly, but he was old enough to feel cross.
Vinetta looked in on Soobie from time to time.
“Those books look interesting,” she said. “I’m sure you can’t have read all of them.”
Soobie ignored her.
Another day, Vinetta brought in a pair of ladders and vigorously cleaned the window.
Soobie twisted round on the sofa and turned his face to the backrest.
“You can see for miles from this window,” said Vinetta forlornly to the back of her son’s head.
Soobie did not answer.
After trying all sorts of gentle, polite questions and tactics, Vinetta decided it was time to tackle the problem head on. It was the end of October. Soobie had sulked for weeks. He had even stopped putting in an appearance when Albert came, though they had been in the middle of a long-running game of chess.
“Soobie,” she said sharply, “I’ve had enough of this. What gives you the right to give up? You were my mainstay. I really felt I could depend on you.”
“Well, you can’t,” said Soobie roughly. They were the first words he had spoken in more than a month.
“Why?” asked Vinetta.
“Go away,” said Soobie, sounding for all the world like Appleby on a bad day. “What I do is my business. I can’t make it plainer than that.”
Vinetta waited for Albert to come again.
“You two seemed to get on so well together,” she said. “Go and see him, Albert. See if you can coax him round. It breaks my heart knowing that he is just lying there as if he wanted to die.”
Albert did not feel at all comfortable about intruding on Soobie. They really were very good friends and Albert felt that their friendship was being used. However, to please Vinetta, who surely deserved some consideration, he went shyly into the little library. He sat down on a stiff-backed armchair to the left of the window. There was a table desk behind the sofa with a seat tucked into it. There was no other furniture in the room.
“This room’s a bit Spartan,” said Albert. “I hate a room without a fire-place. I wouldn’t choose to stay in it for long.”
Soobie said nothing. He did not even look up.
“When are we going to finish that game of chess?” asked Albert. “You’ve got me in a tight spot!”
Soobie did not speak.
Albert felt beaten. The thing on the sofa was a rag doll, a blue rag doll at that. Where was Soobie, the real Soobie, Albert’s friend?
“Come on, Soobie,” said Albert desperately. “Be yourself. We’re all worried about you.”
Soobie suddenly sat upright on the sofa and glared at Albert, eyes glinting like steel in an inky-blue face.
“Go away,” he said. “Leave me alone.”
Then he lay down again and glared straight ahead of him towards, but not at, the window. It was late afternoon. The sky outside was grey and misty.
“Would you like me to close the curtains for you and put on the light?” asked Albert, unwilling to give up.
“No,” said Soobie. “Just go away and leave me alone.”
Albert got up, stood for a few seconds uncertain what to do, then very reluctantly he left the room.
Vinetta spoke to Pilbeam about her twin’s impenetrable gloom.
“I wish there were something I could do,” she said. “Can you not speak to him, Pilbeam? Get him to say what’s wrong? It surely can’t just be homesickness? There has to be more to it than that.”
Pilbeam shook her head.
“It’s no good, Mother. Albert’s tried. If Soobie needs to be alone, he needs to be alone. He has made it quite clear that he doesn’t want to be coaxed. Just respect his mood. Let him be. That is the best you can do.”
“You talked to Appleby once,” said her mother.
“That was different,” said Pilbeam. “We are all different. No two people are the same. No two situations are the same.”
27
Saving the Grove
THE EFFORTS TO save the Grove were, as Appleby had predicted, noisy, intrusive, and bathed in publicity. Drowned in publicity almost. Anthea Fryer believed that nothing short of saturation would do. Her father, the TV producer, had slid from one cliché to the next advising full media cover, the glare of the spotlights, words in the right places. But even he did not imagine the things Anthea would get up to.
Troops of Boy Scouts were persuaded to march round carrying posters on sticks and shouting slogans. A juvenile jazz band, glad of the work, gave a concert on the green under the statue of Matthew James. Baton-swinging majorettes chanted:
“We want to save the Grove,
We want to save the Grove,
Ay, Ay, addey oh!
We want to save the Grove.”
This was followed by a very vigorous shout:
“What do we want?
What do we want?
We want to save
The Grove!!!”
The batons swung high in the air and were dextrously caught again each time the final word was reached. The local TV station recorded the occasion and actually managed to get a slot for it on the national news.
Anthea herself was interviewed on both TV and radio. A sincere girl, totally dedicated to the one purpose of keeping the bulldozer from the door.
“Surely,” said a local councillor on a talk-in programme, “the young lady must know there’s no need for all this. There’s proper channels. There’ll be an Enquiry, an official Enquiry, as always. She can have ’er say at that. They can all have their say. These things take time. Nothing’s goin’ to happen tomorrow, or the next day for that matter. Take it easy. That’s what I say.”
Anthea gave him a stern look.
“That’s just what you’d like,” she said. “A nice quiet Enquiry whilst you’re all beavering away in the background getting ready to break the first turf, or whatever it is they do with motorways. Meantime, our houses s
tand there with a cloud over them and become unsaleable. Then when all but the poor people living here have lost interest the Enquiry will find in favour of the road.”
“With all due respect,” began the councillor, but Anthea would not allow him to speak.
“Wait,” she said. “I haven’t finished. That road must be redirected. I even know where it should go. You may have seen my plan. The decision to save our street must be made now, not next year or the year after that. We’re not waiting for phase two or phase three. We’re pushing for an immediate withdrawal of the threat hanging over us.”
“Perhaps Councillor Eliot would like one last word,” said the programme’s chairman with an anxious look at the studio clock.
He didn’t quite get that last word. The show faded out and the titles came up just as he started to speak.
The wrangling continued. Joshua got used to hearing noises and seeing flashing lights in the street. It made him very uneasy going out to work. There was no back entrance or he would have used it. Where Number 5’s garden ended in a thick hedge, another garden began, the long, neglected back garden of one of the old Georgian terrace houses that were being pulled down in the name of progress. They had at one time been superb town houses, but for many years they had been sublet to assorted tenants and allowed to fall into irreversible neglect. Absolutely no one was trying to make any sort of case for their preservation.
After months of arguing, to the surprise of everyone, even the dauntless Anthea, the opposition suddenly collapsed. A new set of plans was drawn up. Brocklehurst Grove was saved. The victory could not be allowed to go unmarked! Anthea Fryer and her loyal supporters saw to that.
BROCKLEHURST GROVE IS SAVED
HIP! HIP! HOORAY!
The letters were bright blue on a gold background. The banner was being fastened ceremoniously into place.
Anthea was sitting on the top rung of a very long ladder tying cords to the base of the chimney pot at Number 9. On another equally long ladder by her side, Bobby Barras, the fire-chief who happened to live at Number 1, was giving assistance and advice. He had tried to persuade Anthea to leave the job to the professionals, but nobody had ever been able to persuade Anthea to do anything.
“Careful now, Miss Fryer. It’s all a matter of keeping cool and not looking down. Easy does it.”
Anthea gave him a chinny smile.
“Don’t you worry yourself, Mr B. I’ve been up ladders twice the height of this one. There’s nothing to it.”
It was a Monday afternoon, the first day of November. The light was already beginning to fade, streetlamps were coming on, the cars that jammed the main road had all turned on their headlamps. The crowd that filled the square had umbrellas held up against a thin, cold shower of rain. A television camera was recording the event for the evening news.
Yes, Brocklehurst Grove was well and truly saved. It was not Anthea who had saved it. Her enthusiasm would not have budged That Lot, no matter what she thought. Indirectly though, it was the banner that saved the Grove. The first banner.
A lady called Felicity Caxton, who did not even live in Castledean, had seen the banner from the top of a 27 bus. She was a direct descendant of Matthew James Brocklehurst. A bus was not her usual mode of travel, but on a particular Thursday in the middle of August that is where she happened to be. One glimpse of the name Brocklehurst, and the sight of her ancestor seated beneath it, was enough to arouse her interest and indignation. What followed was due entirely to the fact that she and all her many friends and relations belonged to the group known as That Lot. By the beginning of November the plans for the motorway had been changed. The church that was always closed could be demolished instead. The letterbox with the monogram of Queen Victoria would be removed and placed in the Open Air Museum. And everyone could live happily ever after.
By the time Joshua set out for work that Monday evening, the crowds had dispersed, the carnival was over, it was cold and dark. Only the banner remained. Joshua did not even notice that it was not the same bedraggled sheet of cloth that had been there for weeks.
“Much good a banner will do,” he had said to himself more than once as he had trudged his weary way. It is one thing to begrudge speaking to one’s nearest and dearest. It is quite another to have no one there to ignore. Joshua was very, very lonely. He loved being a quiet man in a noisy household. That was something he had never known till now. He never ever phoned Vinetta, he did not even know the number, but he was always pleased when she phoned him. Way back in July, as he was leaving for home, Vinetta had insisted upon writing the Comus House number down for him, ‘in case of an emergency.’ He had nodded absently and slipped it into his coat pocket.
He was sitting in the little office at Sydenham’s, quietly smoking his pipe, when suddenly he realised that something that evening had been different. He recalled being at home, half-watching the early evening news on the television.
“That was our street!” he said out loud as light dawned on him. “Our street on the news.”
He racked his brains to think further about it – rejoicing they were, that crowd outside, chanting something like “We shall not be moved!” And there were ladders. A close-up of a girl with blonde hair and big teeth waving from a roof top.
Then he remembered leaving the house. No crowds then. The banner was still there, but, surely, it was different – streetlamps, wet rag of a banner, but – yes – it was yellow, not white. Of course! It was yellow. He was sure it was yellow. It was not the same banner.
Putting two and two and two together he managed to make a glorious six.
“They’ve done it,” he cried. “They’ve saved the Grove. Now we can all settle down at home again.”
He made himself a mug of ‘cocoa’ to celebrate. Port Vale had never had a happier supporter! He never really knew why he supported that particular football team, or where he had acquired their commemorative mug. It was just part of him, an important part.
28
Where’s the Scooter?
FOR POOPIE IT was a miserable Monday. The rabbit had disappeared from the stable. He had not seen it for three days. One hopeful sign was that something had accepted a free meal of lettuce, carrot and water the night before and Poopie was determined to keep watch in the stable that night. He told his mother all about it.
“I think Andy Black came and had his supper last night, Mum. I’m sure he can’t be far away.”
Vinetta was concerned when he told her his plan.
“I’ll take a sleeping bag and a torch,” he said, “and I’ll hide behind the scooter and watch. I’ll put some food out again. I’m sure he’ll come for it.”
Vinetta was in the middle of pretending to mix a cake. It was part of her plan for settling in. She would pretend to use the old fire oven, and there were some lovely thick oven gloves she could slot her hands into as she opened the cold-hot door.
She put her earthenware basin down on the kitchen table, a huge thing topped with planks of bare wood. Sitting in the rocking-chair, she drew Poopie down onto a stool beside her. Gently, she tried to explain to him that his hopes were likely to be dashed.
“Even if he does come, Poopie, you can’t do much more than say hello. You can’t keep him prisoner. He’s a little wild animal. You helped him and you loved him and now you’ll have to let him go.”
Poopie looked woebegone.
“I’d like to see him again, just this once. If I told him that I’d just like him to visit us and he didn’t have to stay, he might understand.”
Vinetta sighed.
“It might not even be the rabbit that ate the lettuce. It could be anything. It could be mice. It could be a rat.”
She shuddered.
“It’s Andy Black,” said Poopie crossly. “I know it’s Andy Black.”
Poopie went off with the sleeping bag, the torch and the rabbit’s supper to settle himself down for the night. It was six o’clock on Monday evening and already pitch dark. The torch was an old bicycle lamp
with a very bright beam. Poopie entered the stable with not a grain of fear. He made his way over to the corner where the scooter was kept.
It wasn’t there.
“Mum, Mum, Mum,” he yelled running into the kitchen. “The scooter’s gone from the stable.”
“It can’t have done,” said Vinetta. “You’re just panicking. Come on, I’ll come with you and look.”
Pilbeam followed them out across the yard. She had come into the kitchen for company. In recent days she had become closer and closer to Vinetta. Appleby was always miserable and Soobie had withdrawn from the world. Pilbeam felt helpless.
The stable doors were wide open. Poopie shone the lamp all around, up the staircase in the centre, under the staircase, round the walls, everywhere.
“You see,” he said, “it’s not there. It’s not anywhere. Somebody’s nicked it.”
Vinetta took fright immediately.
“Soobie!” she said. “It has to be Soobie.”
Followed by Pilbeam and Poopie, she rushed off into the house, along twisting passages to the library at the north end. She flung open the door. A flood of light from the passage entered the dark room. The curtains were still open but the sky outside was nearly black. On the sofa lay a dark lumpish figure, unmoving, ignoring the commotion.
“Soobie,” said Vinetta, relieved that he was still there. “Thank goodness!”
The blue Mennym reluctantly turned his head to peer at the three figures standing in the doorway.
“Go away,” he said. “Why can’t you just leave me in peace?”
“The scooter’s gone from the stable,” said Vinetta. “Somebody must have stolen it.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” said Soobie “So all of you can get out of here and leave me alone. Ask Appleby about it. She has as good a chance of knowing where it is as anybody.”
“What makes you say that?” asked his mother, alarmed again.