Britannia Mews

by Margery Sharp

  With the rising of the moon her search became easier: vacancy at least was apparent—the empty paths, the unoccupied hollows and breadths of grey untrodden grass; figures took on a sharper definition, declaring themselves at once man or woman, solitary or coupled; even the sleepers showed at a glance some characteristic unpromising shape. Only the deepest shadows, under the trees, now and then drew Dodo’s steps; as often as not she found herself stooping over the cast outline of a branch, or a chair turned on its side.

  She had turned for home, the search abandoned, when hope flickered for the last time: in the alcove at the head of the Serpentine lay a figure whose choice of bed—on a seat, not on the ground—and propriety of coverings—four or five newspapers—discovered an odd air of decorum. But at Dodo’s approach the figure moved, raised from its shapeless wrappings a shapeless face—not Adelaide’s clear profile, nor Adelaide’s voice—as she whined out some plea or apology: a faint odour of decay was released on the night air. But Dodo pushed a coin into the dirty fingers and tried to question her: had she been there long, had she seen a lady with white hair? The creature only mumbled that she was doing no harm. Her nails, however, had found the milled edge of the shilling; with the vestige of a social manner (sketching as it were the caricature of all hostesses) she drew up her broken-booted feet in case Dodo wished to sit down. The latter did so, not expectant of more but simply because she was by now very tired; perhaps because of fatigue the situation did not even seem unusual to her; the silence, as neither spoke again for some minutes, became rather companionable. Then the old woman offered a remark.

  “They don’t cry the All Out any more.…”

  “That’s because the railings are down.”

  “They should cry the All Out,” persisted the old woman, with some energy, “then we’d know where we were. I ain’t afeard o’ spirits.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  The old woman hawked.

  “Why, what’s spirits but tramps? They’re the tramps o’ the next world, same as we’re tramps o’ this. I told that to a clergyman once; and he couldn’t answer me.”

  Dodo looked at her companion with more attention. There was a sort of patness about this reported speech, a touch of the raconteur, that reminded her of Treff. In very different circles both, perhaps, employed the same technique. They were of the same generation; which was also Adelaide’s. Dodo said abruptly,

  “If you were very tired, perhaps not well, and you took a cab, where would you tell it to go?”

  “I’d tell it to go ’ome. If I ’ad a ’ome. If I ’adn’t, why would I take a cab?”

  “That’s just it,” said Dodo.

  She got up, and turned for home.

  It was pure chance, when she had crossed the Bayswater Road, whether she turned right or left, to Chester or to Bedford Street; she turned right, past the higher-numbered houses of Albion Place. It struck her how little damaged they looked: by night the boards across the windows might have been merely shutters, the shadows under the porticoes concealed their damaged front-doors—some boarded like the windows, some buttressed into place; one, neither buttressed nor boarded, stood an inch or two ajar, as though the owner had just gone in and forgotten to close it. Dodo paused. In spite of all fatigue her warden’s instinct told her that that door ought to be secured. She flashed her torch over it, and the number leaped out above the lintel—a figure 8 in white enamel, hanging precariously by the lead of a glassless fanlight.…

  Dodo mounted the shallow step and put her hand on the door. It moved fairly easily, scraping only a little dust and rubbish. From within came either an echo of the sound, or the sound of some other faint movement.

  “Aunt Adelaide!” called Dodo.

  She thought she heard the sound again; flashed her torch over the floor, over the walls, over two tall pillars; found at the foot of the stair a shadow that did not move; and the next moment was on her knees feeling for Adelaide’s hands.

  3

  Adelaide opened her eyes. Her features were greyed with dust, on the left side a little drawn. Dodo turned the torchlight on her own face, and to her immense relief Adelaide’s eyes focussed themselves; with an old gesture she drew herself up, straightening her back; the left shoulder a little higher than the right. She said:—

  “Alice?”

  “No, it’s me, Dodo,” implored Dodo. “Aunt Adelaide, are you all right?”

  “Hold your light up a minute, dear. There, over your head.”

  Afraid to disobey, Dodo did so; and her aunt nodded.

  “Those pillars were always shams: you can see now that the ceiling doesn’t really rest on them. What time is it?”

  “Nearly midnight. Darling, what happened?”

  “I believe I must have over-tired myself, dear—just as you warned me.” (This was the only expression of gratitude, of regret for causing so much distress, that Adelaide ever vouchsafed.) “Then I took a taxi—”

  “We know that. But why didn’t you tell the man to come home?”

  “I did, dear. I suppose I forgot; but this is where we used to live.…”

  It was as simple as that: no more than an odd, but not inexplicable, lapse of memory. And what happened afterwards Dodo could see plainly enough too: Adelaide, already shaken, entering that empty and broken hall, had either fainted or else, and more probably, suffered a slight stroke. She had been there, crouched on the stairs, throughout the whole search—not a stone’s-throw from the Mews, within earshot (could she have heard) of Dodo’s anxious steps …

  “Gilbert will be worrying,” said Adelaide, in her usual voice. “Help me up.”

  “Can you stand?”

  “Of course I can stand.”

  Leaning on Dodo’s shoulder, she rose stiffly to her feet; slowly they traversed the hall and reached the door, where Adelaide took her umbrella from the stand. (Describing this incident afterwards to Gerhardi, Dodo strove hard to convey the queerness of it: behind the door stood what looked like a length of drain-pipe, still painted, no doubt, under its grime, with birds and bullrushes—an old-fashioned umbrella-stand. Adelaide, entering, had instinctively put her umbrella in the proper place.) With this additional support she moved more certainly; they emerged under the portico and Dodo pulled the door to behind them; and a little shower of dust and plaster fell on their heads.

  “It’s time that house came down,” said Adelaide. Whatever blind instinct, whatever old attachment had recalled her there, its power was ended; she did not look back. She said:—

  “Who is with Gilbert?”

  “Treff. Gerhardi’s by the telephone in the foyer.”

  “At this time of night?”

  There on the pavement of Albion Place, Dodo halted. Almost her aunt’s full weight was on her arm, but the old voice carried its familiar sardonic note—in the circumstances annoying.

  “Yes, darling,” said Dodo. “We’ve been ringing up the police about you. Also the hospitals. I’ve walked three times round the Park. We’ve been frantic. That is why Gerhardi is in the foyer, by the telephone.”

  Adelaide sniffed.

  “As you don’t mention Treff, I suppose he kept his head. And as you don’t mention Gilbert—”

  “I think we’d better get home as fast as we can,” said Dodo.

  4

  It needed all her efforts, and Gerhardi’s to get Adelaide up the iron stair. Treff came out of the bedroom, nodded casually to his sister, and held open the door. With a sudden access of strength Adelaide walked in and sat down beside the bed and laid her hand in Gilbert’s. This time his fingers tightened, clutched; he opened his eyes, his lips moved, and from the doorway Dodo caught a whispered phrase.

  “But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

  It is the east …”

  “Old actor!” said Treff unkindly.

  5

  But Dodo, who had seen Adelaide’s head drop suddenly down on the pillow, drew him away; they went downstairs to join Gerhardi, and eat the sandwiches h
e had cut for Dodo, and rest for a moment and relax after the long strain. (It only wanted the tinkle of broken glass, thought Dodo, to complete the after-an-incident atmosphere.) The two men had questions to ask, and when she answered them Treff at least showed less surprise than she expected. “Of course,” he said; and—with rare self-depreciation—“I should have thought of it. She went home.” “But it isn’t her home!” argued Dodo. “Here—or in Kensington, perhaps—but you’ve told me yourself you left Albion Place ages ago!” “It’s where we were children,” said Treff stubbornly. Gerhardi shrugged and said, “Because she had for a little lost herself, yes; but this is her real home, where her husband is, and where the Theatre is. But it is a curious thing, Dodo—you will think me superstitious—”

  “We’re all superstitious, these days.”

  “I had been thinking, while you were away, that if she did not come back, we should have a bomb. There could be no more Britannia Mews without her. And then when you did not come back either (do you know you have been away three hours?) I began to think the same about you. ‘If Dodo does not come back, we shall have a bomb.’ For by that time, you see, I did not expect Mrs. Lambert at all.”

  Dodo munched her sandwich and stared out at the houses opposite. (They were much less particular about the blackout since the doodlebugs.) She said practically:—

  “If we were bombed, they’d build again … probably put up blocks of flats. Albion Place is due for demolition anyhow. Could we have flats over the Theatre?”

  “If it were an entirely new building,” said Gerhardi. “And I tell you, Dodo, if they build, when our lease runs out, we shall need capital … At least some thousands, and a mortgage.…”

  “Dodo can get it from her people,” said Treff.

  “I might.” Dodo reached” for the last sandwich. “After all, we’re established. The Theatre’s been a going concern for nearly forty years. I’d like to keep part of the Mews as a sort of forecourt—”

  “With a café,” said Gerhardi.

  “We can’t go all Glyndebourne.”

  “But a café is quite modest.” Gerhardi pulled out a chalk and began sketching on Adelaide’s blotter. “Have the theatre where it is, and a forecourt so, and the café opposite, with flats above if need be—make it something charming and original, and you will put up the rents of the flats. Treff talks of baroque—”

  “Only for the Theatre,” put in Treff.

  “I would say, let us be quite modern. Dodo, look at my sketch, please, and say if it is not attractive …”

  They bent together over the scribbled plan, and at once began to argue. For the first time Dodo’s possession of the Puppet Theatre was a reality, its future firmly in her hands. All three of them felt it; the two men addressed their arguments to her, competing for her attention, while Dodo, knowing that hers was the last word, listened more than she talked. And they were right so to feel and speak and listen, and even to forget Adelaide; for the two old people in the room above were no longer concerned with the future.

  About the Author

  Margery Sharp (1905–1991) is renowned for her sparkling wit and insight into human nature, which are liberally displayed in her critically acclaimed social comedies of class and manners. Born in Yorkshire, England, she wrote pieces for Punch magazine after attending college and art school. In 1930, she published her first novel, Rhododendron Pie, and in 1938, she married Maj. Geoffrey Castle. Sharp wrote twenty-six novels, three of which, Britannia Mews, Cluny Brown, and The Nutmeg Tree, were made into feature films, and fourteen children’s books, including The Rescuers, which was adapted into two Disney animated films.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1946 by Margery Sharp

  Cover design by Mimi Bark

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-3424-1

  This edition published in 2016 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  180 Maiden Lane

  New York, NY 10038

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