The Sunny Side

by A. A. Milne

  We halted a moment out of sight of the ladies above and considered ourselves. It came to us with a sudden shock that we were a very large party.

  “I suppose,” said Archie to Simpson, “they do expect all of us and not only you? You told them that about half of London was coming?”

  “We’re only six,” said Myra, “because I’ve just counted again, but we seem about twenty.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Simpson cheerfully. “I said we’d be six.”

  “But six in a letter is much smaller than six of us like this; and when they see our luggage—”

  “Let’s go back,” I suggested, suddenly nervous. To be five guests of the guest of a man you have never met is delicate work.

  At this critical moment Archie assumed command. He is a Captain in the Yeomanry and has tackled bigger jobs than this in his time.

  “We must get ourselves into proper order,” he said. “Simpson, the villa has been lent to you; you must go first. Dahlia and I come next. When we arrive you will introduce us as your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Mannering. Then turning to Myra you say, ‘Mr. Mannering’s sister; and this,’ you add, ‘is her husband.’ Then—er—Thomas—”

  “It will be difficult to account for Thomas,” I said. “Thomas comes at the end. He hangs back a little at first; and then if he sees that there is going to be any awkwardness about him, he can pretend he’s come on the wrong night, and apologize and go home again.”

  “If Thomas goes, I go,” said Myra dramatically.

  “I have another idea,” I said. “Thomas hides here for a bit. We introduce ourselves and settle in, and have lunch; and after lunch we take a stroll in the garden, and to our great surprise discover Thomas. ‘Thomas,’ we say, ‘you here? Dear old chap, we thought you were in England. How splendid! Where are you staying? Oh, but you must stop with us; we can easily have a bed put up for you in the garage.’ And then—”

  “Not after lunch,” said Thomas; “before lunch.”

  “Don’t all be so silly,” smiled Dahlia. “They’ll wonder what has happened to us if we wait any longer. Besides, the men will be here with the luggage directly. Come along.”

  “Samuel,” said Archie, “forward.”

  In our new formation we marched up, Simpson excited and rehearsing to himself the words of introduction, we others outwardly calm. At a range of ten yards he opened fire. “How do you do?” he beamed. “Here we all are! Isn’t it a lovely—”

  The cook-housekeeper, majestic but kindly, came forward with outstretched hand and welcomed him volubly—in French. The other three ladies added their French to hers. There was only one English body on the loggia. It belonged to a bull-dog. The bull-dog barked loudly at Simpson in English.

  There was no “Cook’s homme” to save Simpson this time. But he rose to the occasion nobly. The scent of the mimosa inspired him.

  “Merci,” he said, “merci. Oui, n’est ce pas! Delightful. Er—these are—ces sont mes amis. Er—Dahlia, come along—er, Monsieur et Madame Mannering—er—Myra, la soeur de Monsieur—er—where are you, old chap?—le mari de la soeur de Monsieur. Er—Thomas—er—” (he was carried away by memories of his schoolboy French), “le fr re du jardinier—er—” He wheeled round and saw me; introduced me again; introduced Myra as my wife, Archie as her brother, and Dahlia as Archie’s wife; and then with a sudden inspiration presented Thomas grandly as “le beau-p re du petit fils de mes amis Monsieur et Madame Mannering.” Thomas seemed more assured of his place as Peter’s godfather than as the brother of the gardener.

  There were four ladies; we shook hands with all of them. It took us a long time, and I doubt if we got it all in even so, for twice I found myself shaking hands with Simpson. But these may have been additional ones thrown in. It was over at last, and we followed the staff indoors.

  And then we had another surprise. It was broken to us by Dahlia, who, at Simpson’s urgent request, took up the position of lady of the house, and forthwith received the flowing confidences of the housekeeper.

  “Two of us have to sleep outside,” she said.

  “Where?” we all asked blankly.

  We went on to the loggia again, and she pointed to a little house almost hidden by olive-trees in a corner of the garden below us.

  “Oh, well, that’s all right,” said Archie. “It’s on the estate. Thomas, you and Simpson won’t mind that a bit, will you?”

  “We can’t turn Samuel out of his own house,” said Myra indignantly.

  “We aren’t turning him; he wants to go. But, of course, if you and your young man would like to live there instead—”

  Myra looked at me eagerly.

  “It would be rather fun,” she said. “We’d have another little honeymoon all to ourselves.”

  “It wouldn’t really be a honeymoon,” I objected. “We should always be knocking up against trippers in the garden, Archies and Samuels and Thomases and what not. They’d be all over the place.”

  Dahlia explained the domestic arrangements. The honeymooners had their little breakfast in their own little house, and then joined the others for the day at about ten.

  “Or eleven,” said Thomas.

  “It would be rather lovely,” said Myra thoughtfully.

  “Yes,” I agreed; “but have you considered that—Come over this way a moment, where Thomas and Simpson can’t hear, while I tell you some of the disadvantages.”

  I led her into a quiet corner and suggested a few things to her which I hoped would not occur to the other two.

  Item: That if it was raining hard at night, it would be beastly.

  Item: That if you suddenly found you’d left your pipe behind, it would be rotten.

  Item: That if, as was probable, there wasn’t a proper bathroom in the little house, it would be sickening.

  Item: That if she had to walk on muddy paths in her evening shoes, it would be—

  At this point Myra suddenly caught the thread of the argument. We went back to the others.

  “We think,” said Myra, “it would be perfectly heavenly in the little house; but—” She hesitated.

  “But at the same time,” I said, “we think it’s up to Simpson and Thomas to be English gentlemen. Samuel, it’s your honour.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “Come along,” said Thomas to Simpson, “let’s go and look at it.”

  After lunch, clean and well-fed and happy, we lay in deck-chairs on the loggia and looked lazily down at the Mediterranean.

  “Thank you, Samuel, for bringing us,” said Dahlia gently. “Your friends must be very fond of you to have lent you this lovely place.”

  “Not fonder than we are,” said Myra, smiling at him.

  IV. BEFORE LUNCH

  I found Myra in the hammock at the end of the loggia.

  “Hallo,” I said.

  “Hallo.” She looked up from her book and waved her hand. “Mentone on the left, Monte Carlo on the right,” she said, and returned to her book again. Simpson had mentioned the situation so many times that it had become a catch-phrase with us.

  “Fancy reading on a lovely morning like this,” I complained.

  “But that’s why. It’s a very gloomy play by Ibsen, and whenever it’s simply more than I can bear, I look up and see Mentone on the left, Monte Carlo on the right—I mean, I see all the loveliness round me, and then I know the world isn’t so bad after all.” She put her book down. “Are you alone?”

  I gripped her wrist suddenly and put the paper-knife to her throat.

  “We are alone,” I hissed—or whatever you do to a sentence without any ‘s’s in it to make it dramatic. “Your friends cannot save you now. Prepare to—er—come walk up the hill with me.”

  “Help! Help!” whispered Myra. She hesitated a moment; then swung herself out of the hammock and went in for her hat.

  We climbed up a steep path which led to the rock-village above us. Simpson had told us that we must see the village; still more earnestly he had begged us t
o see Corsica. The view of Corsica was to be obtained from a point some miles up—too far to go before lunch.

  “However, we can always say we saw it,” I reassured Myra. “From this distance you can’t be certain of recognizing an island you don’t know. Any small cloud on the horizon will do.”

  “I know it on the map.”

  “Yes, but it looks quite different in real life. The great thing is to be able to assure Simpson at lunch that the Corsican question is now closed. When we’re a little higher up, I shall say, ‘Surely that’s Corsica?’ and you’ll say, ‘Not Corsica?’ as though you’d rather expected the Isle of Wight; and then it’ll be all over. Hallo!”

  We had just passed the narrow archway leading into the courtyard of the village and were following the path up the hill. But in that moment of passing we had been observed. Behind us a dozen village children now trailed eagerly.

  “Oh, the dears!” cried Myra.

  “But I think we made a mistake to bring them,” I said severely. “No one is fonder of our—one, two, three…I make it eleven—our eleven children than I am, but there are times when Father and Mother want to be alone.”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I thought you’d be so proud to have them all with you.”

  “I am proud of them. To reflect that all the—one, two…I make it thirteen—all these thirteen are ours, is very inspiring. But I don’t like people to think that we cannot afford our youngest, our little Philomene, shoes and stockings. And Giuseppe should have washed his face since last Friday. These are small matters, but they are very trying to a father.”

  “Have you any coppers?” asked Myra suddenly. “You forget their pocket-money last week.”

  “One, two, three—I cannot possibly afford—one, two, three, four—Myra, I do wish you’d count them definitely and tell me how many we have. One likes to know. I cannot afford pocket-money for more than a dozen.”

  “Ten.” She took a franc from me and gave it to the biggest girl. (Anne-Marie, our first, and getting on so nicely with her French.) Rapidly she explained what was to be done with it, Anne-Marie’s look of intense rapture slowly straightening itself to one of ordinary gratitude as the financial standing of the other nine in the business became clear. Then we waved farewell to our family and went on.

  High above the village, a thousand feet above the sea, we rested, and looked down upon the silvery olives stretching into the blue…and more particularly upon one red roof which stood up amid the grey-green trees.

  “That’s the Cardews’ villa,” I said.

  Myra was silent.

  When Myra married me she promised to love, honour and write all my thank-you-very-much letters for me, for we agreed before the ceremony that the word “obey” should mean nothing more than that. There are two sorts of T.Y.V.M. letters—the “Thank you very much for asking us, we shall be delighted to come,” and the “Thank you very much for having us, we enjoyed it immensely.” With these off my mind I could really concentrate on my work, or my short mashie shots, or whatever was of importance. But there was now a new kind of letter to write, and one rather outside the terms of our original understanding. A friend of mine had told his friends the Cardews that we were going out to the Riviera and would let them know when we arrived…and we had arrived a week ago.

  “It isn’t at all an easy letter to write,” said Myra. “It’s practically asking a stranger for hospitality.”

  “Let us say ‘indicating our readiness to accept it.’ It sounds better.”

  Myra smiled slowly to herself.

  “‘Dear Mrs. Cardew,’” she said, “‘we are ready for lunch when you are. Yours sincerely.’”

  “Well, that’s the idea.”

  “And then what about the others? If the Cardews are going to be nice we don’t want to leave Dahlia and all of them out of it.”

  I thought it over carefully for a little.

  “What you want to do,” I said at last, “is to write a really long letter to Mrs. Cardew, acquainting her with all the facts. Keep nothing back from her. I should begin by dwelling on the personnel of our little company. ‘My husband and I,’ you should say, ‘are not alone. We have also with us Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Mannering, a delightful couple. Mr. A. Mannering is something in the Territorials when he is not looking after his estate. His wife is a great favourite in the county. Next I have to introduce to you Mr. Thomas Todd, an agreeable young bachelor. Mr. Thomas Todd is in the Sucking-a-ruler-and-looking-out-of-the-window Department of the Admiralty, by whose exertions, so long as we preserve the 2 Todds to 1 formula—or, excluding Canadian Todds, 16 to 10—Britannia rules the waves. Lastly, there is Mr. Samuel Simpson. Short of sight but warm of heart, and with (on a bad pitch) a nasty break from the off, Mr. S. Simpson is a litt rateur of some eminence but little circulation, combining on the cornet intense wind-power with no execution, and on the golf course an endless enthusiasm with only an occasional contact. This, dear Mrs. Cardew, is our little party. I say nothing of my husband.’”

  “Go on,” smiled Myra. “You have still to explain how we invite ourselves to lunch.”

  “We don’t; we leave that to her. All we do is to give a list of the meals in which, in the ordinary course, we are wont to indulge, together with a few notes on our relative capacities at each. ‘Perhaps,’ you wind up, ‘it is at luncheon time that as a party we show to the best advantage. Some day, my dear Mrs. Cardew, we must all meet at lunch. You will then see that I have exaggerated neither my husband’s appetite, nor the light conversation of my brother, nor the power of apology, should any little contretemps occur, of Mr. Samuel Simpson. Let us, I say, meet at lunch. Let us—’” I took out my watch suddenly.

  “Come on,” I said, getting up and giving a hand to Myra; “we shall only just be in time for it.”

  V. THE GAMESTERS

  “It’s about time,” said Simpson one evening, “that we went to the tables and—er—” (he adjusted his spectacles)—“had a little flutter.”

  We all looked at him in silent admiration.

  “Oh, Samuel,” sighed Myra, “and I promised your aunt that you shouldn’t gamble while you were away.”

  “But, my dear Myra, it’s the first thing the fellows at the club ask you when you’ve been to the Riviera—if you’ve had any luck.”

  “Well, you’ve had a lot of luck,” said Archie. “Several times when you’ve been standing on the heights and calling attention to the beautiful view below, I’ve said to myself, ‘One push, and he’s a deader,’ but something, some mysterious agency within, has kept me back.”

  “All the fellows at the club—”

  Simpson is popularly supposed to belong to a Fleet Street Toilet and Hairdressing Club, where for three guineas a year he gets shaved every day, and has his hair cut whenever Myra insists. On the many occasions when he authorizes a startling story of some well-known statesman with the words: “My dear old chap, I know it for a fact. I heard it at the club to-day from a friend of his,” then we know that once again the barber’s assistant has been gossiping over the lather.

  “Do think, Samuel,” I interrupted, “how much more splendid if you could be the only man who had seen Monte Carlo without going inside the rooms. And then when the hairdresser—when your friends at the club ask if you’ve had any luck at the tables, you just say coldly, ‘What tables?’”

  “Preferably in Latin,” said Archie. “Quae mensae?”

  But it was obviously no good arguing with him. Besides, we were all keen enough to go.

  “We needn’t lose,” said Myra. “We might win.”

  “Good idea,” said Thomas. He lit his pipe and added, “Simpson was telling me about his system last night. At least, he was just beginning when I went to sleep.” He applied another match to his pipe and went on, as if the idea had suddenly struck him, “Perhaps it was only his internal system he meant. I didn’t wait.”

  “Samuel, you are quite well inside, aren’t you?”

  “Quite, Myra. But, I have inve
nted a sort of system for roulette, which we might—”

  “There’s only one system which is any good,” pronounced Archie. “It’s the system by which, when you’ve lost all your own money, you turn to the man next to you and say, ‘Lend me a louis, dear old chap, till Christmas; I’ve forgotten my purse.’”

  “No systems,” said Dahlia. “Let’s make a collection and put it all on one number and hope it will win.”

  Dahlia had obviously been reading novels about people who break the bank.

  “It’s as good a way of losing as any other,” said Archie. “Let’s do it for our first gamble, anyway. Simpson, as our host, shall put the money on. I, as his oldest friend, shall watch him to see that he does it. What’s the number to be?”

  We all thought hard for several moments.

  “Samuel, what’s your age?” asked Myra, at last.

  “Right off the board,” said Thomas.

  “You’re not really more than thirty-six?” Myra whispered to him. “Tell me as a secret.”

  “Peter’s nearly two,” said Dahlia.

  “Do you think you could nearly put our money on ‘two’?” asked Archie.

  “I once made seventeen,” I said. “On that never-to-be-forgotten day when I went in first with Archie—”

  “That settles it. Here’s to the highest score of The Rabbits’ wicket-keeper. To-morrow afternoon we put our money on seventeen. Simpson, you have between now and 3.30 to-morrow to perfect your French delivery of the magic word dix-sept.”

  I went to bed a proud but anxious man that night. It was my famous score which had decided the figure that was to bring us fortune…and yet…and yet…

  Suppose eighteen turned up? The remorse, the bitterness! “If only,” I should tell myself—“if only we had run three instead of two for that cut to square-leg!” Suppose it were sixteen! “Why, oh why,” I should groan, “did I make the scorer put that bye down as a hit?” Suppose it were thirty-four! But there my responsibility ended. If it were going to be thirty-four, they should have used one of Archie’s scores, and made a good job of it.