by Ngaio Marsh
“Mummy, we can’t,” said Frid. “It’s too ghastly.”
“What?”
“The Brummell Street house.”
“Do you mean Giggle or the furniture, Frid?”
“Well, both. The furniture, really. I don’t believe in ghosts though of course it would be rather awful if Giggle’s blood—”
“That will do, Frid,” said Lord Charles.
“Drip, drip, drip.”
“Frid!”
“What does Frid mean?” asked Michael.
“Nothing,” said Frid. “But Mummy, 24 Brummell Street! Honestly!”
“My poor baby, I know. But attend to me. Let me finish. My cunning tells me that we can improve Brummell Street. Sell the most valuable of Aunt V.’s monsters—”
“Good heavens, Immy,” Lord Charles interrupted, “what about V.? I mean, haven’t we got V. on our hands? I mean she’s mad.”
“We must keep our heads about that,” said Charlot capably. “Dr. Kantripp will help. As soon as she has given her evidence—”
“But will she give evidence?” Henry asked. “She’d cut a pretty queer figure in the witness-box talking about soporific spells.”
“Do let’s keep to the point,” said his mother. “We were in Brummell Street. Now with what we save on rent we shall be able to make a few meagre alterations to the Brummell Street house. Paint the walls and change the curtains and get at least enough bathrooms for ordinary cleanliness. We could cover the worst of the chairs that we don’t sell with something dirt cheap but amusing.”
“French chintz?” suggested Frid, taking fire.
“Yes, I mean something that will simply tide us over our bad times. We’ll consult a clever decorator. What I do want to hammer into your heads,” said Charlot, “is that we are poor. Poor, poor, poor.”
Henry, who had been watching Roberta, burst out laughing. Charlot gazed at him with an air of injury.
“What are you laughing at, Henry?”
“I was wondering if Robin could be persuaded to tell us her thoughts.”
Roberta became very pink. She had been reflecting on that agreeable attitude of mind which enabled the Lampreys, after a lifetime of pecuniary hazards, to feel the pinch of poverty upon the acquisition of an income of thirty thousand pounds. There they were, as solemn as owls, putting a brave face on penury and at the same time warming to the re-decoration of 24 Brummell Street.
“Robin,” said Henry, “I shall guess at your thoughts.”
“No, Henry, don’t. But you can make another kind of guess. What family in fiction would you most resemble if you belonged to a different class?”
“The Macbeths?” asked Frid. “No. Because, after all, Daddy and Mummy didn’t murder Uncle G. and the sleeping groom.”
“I think I’m rather a Spartan mother,” said Charlot. “Isn’t there a Spartan family in a play? That’s what we shall resemble in the future, I promise you.”
“I think Mummy’s Congrevian,” said Stephen.
“Millament?” murmured Lord Charles.
“Robin means ‘The Comedy of Errors,’ ” said Patch, “because of the twins.”
“Jemima Puddleduck,” said Mike and burst into one of his small-boy fits of charming laughter. “You’re Jemima Puddleduck, Mummy, and you go pit-pat-paddle-pat, pit-pat-waddle-pat.”
“Mikey!” cried Charlot. Michael screwed up a piece of the expensive note-paper and threw it at her. “Pit-pat-waddle-pat,” he shouted.
“I’m afraid I know which family Robin means,” said Henry. He took Roberta by the shoulders. “The Micawbers.”
The others stared innocently at Robin and shook their heads.
“Poor old Robin,” said Frid. “It’s all been a bit too much for her.”
“It’s been a bit too much for all of us,” said Charlot. “Which brings me to the rest of my story. I’ve got a little plan, Charlie darling. I think it would be such a good idea if we all crept away somewhere for a little holiday before the trial comes off or war breaks out and nobody can go anywhere. I don’t mean anywhere smart like Antibes or the Lido but some unsmart place, do you know? Somewhere where we could bathe and blow away the horrors and have a tiny bit of mild gambling at night. I think the Cote d’Azur somewhere would be best because it’s not the season and so we shouldn’t need many clothes.”
“Monte Carlo?” Frid suggested. “It’s very unsmart nowadays.”
“Yes, somewhere quite dull and cheap. After all,” said Charlot, looking affectionately at her family, “when you think of what we’ve been through you’re bound to agree that we must have some fun.”
“Well, there’s Uncle G. under the turf at last,” said Nigel. “What do you suppose the Lampreys will do now?”
They’re your friends,“ Alleyn grunted. ”God forbid that I should prophesy about them.”
“They’ll be damned rich, won’t they?”
“Pretty well.”
“I wonder if they’ll turn comparatively careful about money. People do sometimes when they get a lot.”
“Sometimes.”
“Henry’s been talking about a job.”
“Good lord! Not the little New Zealander?”
“I think so.” Alleyn grimaced. “I told you she was a courageous little party,” he said.
December 27,1939
Cashmere Hills,
New Zealand
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