Several years later, when the Puppet Theatre was putting on The Brave Tin Soldier, Dodo re-read all Hans Andersen. When she came to the story of the two snails who lived under a burdock-leaf, she smiled. They were so like Alice and Freddy! She took the book with her next time she went to Surbiton, but on second thoughts did not show it, and the joke was never shared; for amongst the many things her aunt taught her—such as simple arithmetic, method, and the habit of hard work—was respect for parents, and all persons older than herself.
CHAPTER X
1
The Hans Andersen series was a great success. Puppets were made for The Little Mermaid, The Nightingale, and The Emperor’s New Clothes, all of which went into the permanent repertory. The big baskets in the store-room now held nearly a hundred puppets, not counting the characters from Molière. These were frequently on loan to museums or exhibitions, and an earnest young man from the Victoria and Albert acquired permanent possession of Tartuffe and the Marquise. Persons writing a week in advance could examine the rest of the set by appointment.
In 1928, the Theatre gained a brilliant recruit in the person of one Mark Bartholomew, a young student from the Slade whose satires on the Bright Young Things of the period gained piquancy from the fact that Bright Young Things filled the Theatre. (They filled the Mews. The goings-on of ’twenty-two were as nothing to the goings-on of ’twenty-eight.) The Bartholomew puppets marked a new epoch, and also found their way into exhibitions. A few years later new blood flowed in again, this time from the Continent: an Austrian Jew walked in with an entire Danse Macabre in a sack sewn out of his overcoat, asking fifty pounds, or ten pounds, or five pounds for the lot. Mrs. Lambert engaged him as a manipulator, for by this time Gilbert was too frail to do anything but sit at rehearsals with a rug over his knees. The business side of affairs fell more and more upon Dodo; acting first as her aunt’s adjutant, she acquired both Adelaide’s capability and her imperiousness. She worked hard, but it was a satisfying life, and full of human contacts: there was Bartholomew to be encouraged while he was working, and driven when he was not; the Jew Gerhardi to be encouraged all the time; odd assistants and cleaners about the Theatre to be kept up to the mark; and over all Mr. and Mrs. Lambert, the proprietors, the only begetters of the whole enterprise, to be cherished, shielded, deferred to—and made to rest in the afternoons.
In her thirties Dodo was as pretty as she had been as a girl; both Bartholomew and Gerhardi asked her to marry them. The one was so much too young, the other so much too Austrian, that Dodo refused almost without thinking; she would have missed their companionship; but that, the Theatre assured her. They lived for the Theatre, all three of them; when the war came, the Theatre was their first thought.
2
Of course they would keep open. On this point they were all in complete agreement—congratulating themselves, moreover, on the possession of a company whose members would never be called up, never needed holidays, and whose limbs could be replaced in a matter of hours. And of course, added Dodo, the Lamberts would leave London.
“I think not, dear,” said Adelaide gently.
Dodo drew a deep breath. She meant to speak casually, as though referring to an accepted plan, but in spite of herself her voice sounded thin with anxiety.
“I’m sorry, Aunt Adelaide, but you must.”
“Well, we’ll see, dear.”
Nothing could have alarmed Dodo more than this unusual mildness: it meant that her aunt’s will was so firmly set that she wouldn’t even bother to argue. But Dodo also had a will, and a great fund of persistence; and continual dropping was said to wear away stone.…
“Very well,” said Dodo grimly. “We’ll see.”
Once again a redistribution of the family was imminent. When war broke out Adelaide and Gilbert and Dodo were in Britannia Mews, the Bakers, Miss Hambro and Treff Culver at Surbiton; Dodo, confident of herself remaining fixed, waited impatiently for the shake of the kaleidoscope. But the characteristic of the kaleidoscope is unpredictability, and when the new pattern emerged, it was by no means the one she expected.
3
The first months of the war—the phony war—produced no violent changes but a great deal of extra work. Both Dodo and Gerhardi became air-raid wardens, and spent all spare moments hearing each other repeat the unpleasant symptoms produced by different gases: their A.R.P. Post was conveniently situated in Chester Street, and Dodo could get from her bed to her telephone in four minutes flat. For three days they worked almost continuously on the distribution and fitting of gas-masks; then a lull—the phony lull—succeeded, and the Post became a tea-drinking Cave of Adullam. At the Theatre they made blackout boards from old sets, and these, painted on the inside with masks and wands, rather added to the general effect. A selection of the Molière puppets was taken by cab to the Victoria and Albert Museum and deposited there for safe-keeping; Gerhardi slipped in one or two of his Danse Macabre figures as well, and insisted on seeing the same young man who had previously acquired the Tartuffe. “If I am killed,” said Gerhardi impressively, “I wish the Museum to retain them. I have written a card, for when they are on show; and please do not let them be confused with the rest.” Dodo, unpacking the hamper, glanced over his shoulder: The work of Anatole Augustus Franz-Josef Gerhardi, 1890–19—. (“You will please fill in the date,” explained Gerhardi.) Dodo looked at the half-sheet of note-paper supplied by her aunt, and found it more optimistic. Property of Mrs. Lambert, wrote Adelaide curtly. But Gerhardi’s precaution was not unreasonable, and under the serious young man’s approving eye Dodo added the words, Work of Gilbert Lambert.
She did not, on her return, mention this addition to her aunt, but she did point out the paradox of sending puppets into safe-keeping while remaining in danger oneself. Adelaide at once retorted that if Dodo wished to leave town, the Theatre could perfectly well carry on without her. Neither took this remark seriously, but it roused Dodo to the point of swearing at her aunt.
“Damn it all, Aunt Adelaide, it’s not just I who want you to go! The Government’s asked every one who can to leave London—”
“I don’t believe in all this gadding about the country.”
“You can’t call a Government evacuation scheme gadding about the country!”
“Nor do I see myself joining the queue of snotty-nosed schoolchildren. Nor do I yet consider myself a superfluous person. If we do manage to keep open, I shall probably be back in the box-office.”
“That’s my job.”
“You will probably be scrubbing the floor—I remember how difficult it was last time,” said Adelaide, “to get a charwoman. When was Gerhardi naturalized?”
“’Thirty-five,” said Dodo. “Thank goodness.” She frowned. Gerhardi was a tower of strength—an ingenious craftsman, an expert manipulator; but Dodo worried about young Bartholomew. He was twenty-eight, and much fitter than he looked; his puppets were in a class by themselves, finer than Gerhardi’s, finer than anything the Theatre possessed except the original French set. He had just produced a Leda and Swan of extreme beauty—the Museum wanted these too, but Barty, with the prodigality of genius, refused them; he said they could take their chance, and if they got bombed he could make better—he had designs in hand for a whole Olympus. Dodo had been talking about him that afternoon, and now, shelving for the moment the major problem of the Lamberts, she said briskly:—
“That reminds me—will you write a letter to the War Office?”
“I cannot imagine,” said Adelaide, “that even at this juncture they require my advice.”
“And to the Council of Arts, or whatever it is?” went on Dodo, unheeding. “I’ve got the exact address. They’re making out a short list of artists and writers and dancers and so on, who oughtn’t to be called up, I believe they don’t want more than a hundred names on it, so you ought to write at once and apply for Barty. He’d make a rotten soldier, and he is a genius.”
Adelaide considered this proposal for a moment or two in silence. A
t seventy-five she was no longer so upright as she used to be; but she straightened her shoulders.
“Have you asked young Bartholomew’s opinion?”
“No,” admitted Dodo. “But you know he’ll do whatever he’s told. And he oughtn’t to go, Aunt Adelaide; it would be such a waste.”
Ever since her marriage Adelaide had had a low opinion of artists, which even the success of the Puppet Theatre had not altered. She said tartly:—
“There was none of this nonsense last time. Young Jackson volunteered immediately. We have enough puppets to carry on with for years. If young Bartholomew is called upon to die for his country instead of making more, I certainly shall raise no objection.”
“One man,” said Dodo, “can’t make any difference.”
“That is no reason why one man should be excused from his duty. It would be most unfair.”
“Aunt Adelaide, you can’t talk of fair and unfair when it’s a question of artistic value! Why did we take the Molière lot to the V. and A.? Why are they sending all the pictures out of London? Because they’re irreplaceable! And so is Barty irreplaceable! It’s absurd!”
“I shall write no letter,” said Adelaide.
As a matter of fact, it would have made no difference had she done so: the War Office took precisely her view. With great courtesy it admitted the artistic standpoint; and with equal firmness pointed out that such discrimination would be un-English, and therefore unfair.
4
After the fall of France, after Dunkirk, with the first raids on London, the tempo of change quickened. Britannia Mews emptied—the simile was Adelaide’s—like a sink. The gay amusing cottages stood empty; at the A.R.P. Post one or two glamour girls were missing—called to the side of friends in safe areas; other glamour girls remained, drove through the blitz, clung to their telephones under tables, and emerged to polish their scarlet finger-nails and complain about the shortage of cosmetics. Dodo clung to her telephone along with them, and every morning waited anxiously for Gerhardi to report. He was now attached to Light Rescue, and often sick when he came in. The Puppet Theatre opened for matinées only, and indeed they could hardly have managed more; but both were glad to escape, for an hour or two, into the small bright world of illusion.
Not Dodo and Gerhardi alone found comfort there. The Puppet, since so many theatres had closed, was extremely popular, and Adelaide never ceased to marvel at the number of Tommies in the audience. For Adelaide still called them “Tommies”—her vigorous mind was beginning to harden; any private soldier was a Tommy to her, and all Tommies by definition were rough, brave—and uneducated. Her niece pointed out in vain that many of those in the audience were actually old Members disguised by uniform. “Nonsense,” said Adelaide. “They would have commissions.” This attitude so exasperated Dodo that she began to look out for some identifiable individual, and in due course produced a young man named Warbeck who had occupied the end seat in Row F twice a month for three years; he was now a private in the London Scottish. Adelaide was forced to admit the fact, but interpreted it as pointing to something discreditable in Mr. Warbeck’s past.
The point was important, because it was Adelaide who directed the Theatre’s policy, and with sincere patriotism she wished to provide these brave Tommies with suitable entertainment. She proposed to cut out all items except Music Hall and a knockabout farce invented by Gerhardi to show off his technical skill, and ordered Bartholomew to lay aside a Europa for a Charlie Chaplin. “They must have what they want,” said Adelaide firmly. “You can’t tell me Tommies enjoy Molière.” … “But they do,” said Dodo.… “Or mythological pastiche.” … “But they do!” cried Dodo—“We cater for the ones who don’t want to go to the Windmill.” In the end Dodo won by pinning up in the foyer a large sheet of paper with the name of every item on it and a notice beneath: SERVICE PATRONS ONLY: PLEASE TICK YOUR FAVOURITES. It remained up for a month, during which Dodo and Gerhardi went about with smugger and smugger looks. The Hans Andersen and Ballet tied for first place, with Molière second; Music Hall was third, and the farce at the foot.
While the serenity of Adelaide and Gilbert remained unshaken, Dodo found it unnerving. They refused to patronize the shelter under the Cock, they refused even to leave their beds, during the heaviest raids. “After threescore years and ten,” observed Adelaide, “one doesn’t go traipsing about in one’s night-clothes”; and in the veiled allusion to the Biblical span Dodo divined a sort of gambler’s theory: until the age of seventy, one should take reasonable care of oneself; but after that it was up to the Lord.
She was thankful that her own parents did not share this view: Alice and Freddy were in Somerset. The Somerset Bakers, in a recrudescence of family affection, had urgently summoned them, and Alice was to seek accommodation in the same village for Aunt Ellen and Treff. Her joy in this reunion was marred only by the thought of leaving Dodo behind: she came up to the Mews, tearfully imploring; Dodo, her tin hat still on the back of her head, grinned cheerfully and swore that the moment she felt nervous she would take the next train out. But it was her father’s eye she caught as she spoke, and Freddy Baker grinned back. While Alice was talking to Adelaide he gave Dodo fifty pounds in notes, to buy, he said simply, drinks with. (He wasn’t grinning as he added, “I’m about eighty, Dodo, and your mother would be wretched without me. I still feel a rat.”) But Dodo thought their behaviour exemplary, and said so, and said so again to Adelaide as soon as they were gone.
“It’s what I call being really sensible,” she repeated pointedly, “and thoroughly considerate. Don’t you, Aunt Adelaide?”
“Filial piety in reverse,” agreed Adelaide briskly. “Dear Alice always was a bit of a mouse.”
“And please don’t sneer at her.”
“Filial piety in the ascendant,” said Adelaide, unabashed.
Dodo sat down on the edge of the desk—they were in the foyer—and marshalled her forces for argument. She didn’t want to argue, she had had only three hours’ sleep and was very tired, but she had learned something during the night which thoroughly upset her.
“Aunt Adelaide, have you or have you not been into the Post while I wasn’t there and told them no one slept over the Theatre?”
“I have.”
“And would you mind telling me why the hell?”
“I can see you’ve had a bad night, dear,” said Adelaide sympathetically. “I told them no one slept here, of course, because you are always out on an Alert, and your uncle and I don’t wish people to take risks rescuing us.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. It simply means that Gerhardi and I now have an added anxiety. Of course some one’s got to rescue you!”
Adelaide sighed.
“I do think that at our age—”
“I know, threescore years and ten,” interrupted Dodo rudely. “The whole trouble is you simply imagine you’ll be killed outright. You never think of being trapped and injured.”
“Yes, I do. But you know, dear, even a slight injury, even the shock, would be too much for Gilbert—”
“That’s all the more reason why you should take him away. Every rational person is getting out as fast as they can—”
At that moment, as though to point her argument, in swooped a young woman in a mink coat, carrying a jewel-case and a small bag.
5
Both Adelaide and Dodo knew her, though only as Cyclamen—Number 1 having been redecorated from top to bottom in that tender hue for her reception. This had happened in the autumn of ’thirty-nine, when the first alarms were over, and before the war, as one said, had got rough: Cyclamen was fond of telling her friends how she had snapped up her darling little cot under the noses of the ’fraid-cats. Hers was the wide-eyed, kittenish, little-girl approach: démodé, but eternally bringing home the goods.
“You’re not going, are you?” now cried Cyclamen breathlessly. “I mean, shall I leave my key here? There’s a bucket of water upstairs, and a bucket of sand down, and if you’d got the key you w
ouldn’t have to break in. Would you?”
On the other side of the desk aunt and niece presented a suddenly united front.
“I should be obliged if you would tell me,” said Adelaide, “what exactly you have in mind?”
“She has incendiaries in mind,” said Dodo grimly.
Adelaide’s eyebrows shot up.
“Do I understand you wish to leave your key so that my niece may go and put them out for you?”
“Well, aren’t you a warden?” asked Cyclamen, turning to Dodo in simple confidence. “I thought that was what wardens were for.”
“You have undoubtedly,” said Dodo, “the right idea.”
Cyclamen rolled her big eyes from one to the other of them, sensing, it seemed, and incredulously, an implied criticism.
“But I’d stay myself if I could do any good,” she explained. “I’d love to. It’s just that my nerves let me down.”
“You look as strong,” observed Adelaide dispassionately, “as an ox.”
Cyclamen brightened a little.
“That’s what’s so funny about me. I look strong, don’t I?—but I’m not really. I’m not wiry, like Miss Baker. My doctor says that if I don’t leave London at once I shall have a complete breakdown and just be a nuisance to every one …”
“He is probably right,” said Adelaide.
Cyclamen brightened still more.
“I knew you’d understand,” she said gratefully. “And I may leave my key, mayn’t I? I mean, I’ve some quite nice things—I do wish I had time to show them you!—and of course I’ll be back as soon as my nerves are right again, only I must go now because my friend’s sending his car, and it’s the last of his petrol so I mustn’t keep him waiting. But I’ll tell him how sweet you’ve both been, and one day we’ll all have a party!”
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