“Miss Clutterbuck!” I exclaim, throwing down my pen in despair. “I can’t do shorthand. I never said I could. It’s hopeless!”
“Hopeless!”
“I’m sorry but you’ll have to go over them again, slowly.”
“Mark the letters yes or no as I give them to you, then you can write them later.”
“But what am I to say? Supposing I say something that puts them off?”
“You won’t,” replies Miss Clutterbuck. “The only way to put them off is to say the place is full and even then they keep on writing. Here’s a man, for instance . . . I didn’t like his letter so I said we were full up till October and now he writes to ask if I couldn’t put up a camp bed for him somewhere. I don’t want hordes of people,” explains Miss Clutterbuck, stabbing out the butt of her cigarette and fitting another into her holder. “I’m running the place as a hotel because I’ve got to do it, but I’m not going to pack the place like a sardine tin—and I may as well have decent people while I’m about it, people that will take what they’re given in the way of food, people who know how to behave themselves.”
“That’s only sensible.”
She raises her eyes and glowers at me. “Yes, I’m sensible,” she declares. “If you see anything in this house that you don’t think sensible, you can tell me about it.”
This remark is rhetorical, of course. Miss Clutterbuck rises as she speaks and obviously expects no reply, but somehow or other I am not quite so frightened of her now, and a demon of mischief lurking deep within me prompts me to take her at her word.
“There’s just one thing, so far,” I tell her. “Quite a small thing, of course. I wondered why you had put those notices in all the bedrooms asking guests to bring their own towels.”
“Because I want them to bring their own towels, of course!” exclaims Miss Clutterbuck in wrathful amazement. “I can provide enough towels for residents, but not for people who only come for a couple of nights. I had those notices printed and hung in all the bedrooms—”
“Yes, I realized that—but you see, Miss Clutterbuck, by the time you arrive in your bedroom it’s too late.”
“Too late!”
“Much too late. You’ve either brought your towel with you—or not. And, if you haven’t had the foresight to bring it with you, no notice in large clear type hung upon the wall of your bedroom will alter the fact.”
“Hrrmph!” exclaims Miss Clutterbuck. (She does not really say “Hrrmph,” of course. The ejaculation is made by Miss Clutterbuck clenching her teeth and emitting a short deep grunt; if she happens to be smoking at the time—and rarely is she not—smoke issues from her nostrils in two clouds which adds to the horrific effect.)
“May I suggest—” I continue, sweetly—“may I suggest that we have small slips of paper printed so that these could be enclosed when I write to people and offer them rooms?”
“May I suggest that your meekness is deceptive?” retorts Miss Clutterbuck fiercely, but there is a latent twinkle in her eye. Is it possible that Miss Clutterbuck’s ferocity is deceptive, or perhaps only skin-deep?
Decide that today I must really get down to things and evolve some sort of routine instead of pottering round and accomplishing nothing. This laudable intention is frustrated by Miss Clutterbuck who says will I please take the car and do the shopping in Ryddelton. The Grants are arriving this morning (Miss Clutterbuck says) and she had better be here to see them and show them their rooms and deal with any complaints as to aspect or unsuitability. Here’s a list of the shops—she has accounts with most of them—and here’s a list of shopping and two pounds for extras.
I take both lists and the two pound notes and endeavour to look business-like and intelligent.
Miss Clutterbuck adds that the battery has run down so she’s told Todd to start the car and I can park it on a hill when I get to the town to avoid cranking. . . . Oh, and I had better get a large notebook for the linen cupboard, and some ink so that I can make a list of the linen . . . adds that she forgot to write down soap powder, she doubts if I’ll get it but no harm to ask . . . adds that reminds her Cook needs curry powder and Hope wants powder for the baths, and I had better get oil for the sewing machine while I’m about it.
At this point Cook rushes in and says has Mrs. Christie gone, because she wants a scraper, not a door scraper but a thing for scraping carrots, and Todd wants half a pound of carpet tacks, and has Miss Clutterbuck remembered the knife? Miss Clutterbuck strikes herself on the forehead and says she knew there was something—a sharp knife for skinning rabbits.
Cook says she hopes Mrs. Christie is going soon or they won’t keep the fish.
Miss Clutterbuck asks if I think I’ll manage.
Reply with confidence (which I am far from feeling), “Of course I’ll manage!” Throw on hat and coat, seize two baskets and rush out to the garage where I find the car has been started by Todd; the engine is puffing and panting and clouds of blue smoke are issuing from the exhaust.
There is a youngish man in the garage. He is attired in overalls and is tinkering with a bright blue sports car. He looks up as I approach and says have I seen Todd, because he’s got a leak in his carburettor and Todd will know what to do. Reply that I have not seen Todd.
The youngish man looks at me and says, “Oh, you’re the new dogsbody, of course. My name’s Wick if that’s any interest to you.”
Decide that I do not like Mr. Wick and that his name is of no interest to me whatsoever, but manage to refrain from saying so. As I climb into the driving seat Mr. Wick leaves his car and comes over, spanner in hand, and asks incredulously if I intend to take that thing out on the road. It ought to be in a museum, Mr. Wick thinks, or at Darlington Station alongside Puffing Billy. Reply that the car is the property of Miss Clutterbuck so these suggestions should be made to her.
“Not likely!” exclaims Mr. Wick turning away.
Drive slowly down the avenue, trying various gears and discover they are not only extremely difficult to engage but, when engaged, behave in an incalculable manner; also discover that it is impossible to get into top unless the car is practically stationary which seems an inconvenient arrangement. Decide that Miss Clutterbuck had every excuse for her taciturnity on the night of my arrival as the car takes the whole of one’s attention . . . discover at the gate, where I endeavour to slow down, that the foot brake is not working, but fortunately the hand brake is, otherwise it would have been difficult to carry out my instructions to park on a hill.
The town of Ryddelton is bright and spacious, or at least that is the impression it produces upon me. It consists of one very wide street and several very narrow ones; the wide street is divided by trees planted up the middle and by a war memorial surrounded by green painted seats. Some of the buildings look old and are slightly crooked, while others are solid sensible Victorian structures of dressed grey stone. There are three large churches, which seems an ample provision for a smallish town, and a municipal hall with a clock in the tower. It is some little time before I discover a parking place; there are plenty of hills but most of them are too steep or too narrow and are therefore unsuitable for the purpose, but eventually I discover the ideal spot and blocking the wheels with stones I take the baskets and begin my shopping. There are no queues here, except at the fish shop (how different from Donford where nearly every catering establishment had its queue) and before I have stood very long in the fish queue I discover it is quite a social occasion. It is in the fish queue that the worthy people of Ryddelton meet their friends, enquire after wee Jeanie’s tonsils and Andrew’s rheumatics; it is here they discuss the news of the day or arrange to go to the pictures. Two tweed-clad women in front of me carry on a conversation more germane to the matter in hand. Lovat Tweed is older than Grey Tweed but seems a tyro at the game.
“What funny looking fish!” she remarks. “The ones with the red spots on their backs.”
“Plaice,” replies Grey Tweed succinctly.
“What does one do w
ith them, Jean?”
“One fries them if one has enough fat.”
“And if one hasn’t?”
“I suppose one could grill them,” says Grey Tweed doubtfully.
Lovat Tweed sighs and says she wonders if it’s worth waiting, it looks as if there wouldn’t be anything left except the spotty fish and she doesn’t fancy them, somehow.
“They’re quite nice,” declares Grey Tweed earnestly. “I shall wait; my butcher has nothing.”
“Not even sausages?”
“Nothing. Jean, do you ever get a kidney?”
“Sometimes, if I plead with him, but I’d rather use my persuasive powers to get a bit of liver, it goes further.”
“My dear!” cries Grey Tweed in amazement. “My butcher has no liver—ever—and no heart.”
The woman behind me is less patient in adversity than her fellows. She heaves several deep sighs and says to her friend she wonders if there’ll be enough to go round. “We were in Edinburgh on Saturday,” she says in complaining tones. “We were at the Zoo and the keeper was throwing fish to the sea lions—believe it or not.”
“It’s an idea,” declares her friend. “But I doubt if we’d be as good as the sea lions at catching them.” She says this with a completely serious expression, but I (who am not of Scottish extraction) cannot emulate her gravity.
“Thomas said—” declares the first woman—“Thomas said it was an awfu’ waste of good food.”
“You should have sent Thomas in among them,” replies the second. “The keeper would never have noticed . . .” Thus whiling away the time in pleasant manner the fish queue moves slowly forward to its goal, is fed with parcels of fish and dispersed to the four winds. Soon it is my turn and I enquire for Miss Clutterbuck’s usual order.
“The Tocher fish!” exclaims the girl as she glances at me with interest. “It’s ready. Where did I put it? Clem, where did I put the Tocher fish?”
Clem produces an enormous flabby parcel and hands it over, gazing at me the while. “You’re new here?” she enquires. “It used to be a fat wee woman with scrunty hair.” This description of my predecessor interests me quite a lot but I have no time to linger, so I agree pleasantly that I am new, stow the parcel into one of my baskets and hurry away . . . and now I am too busy to observe my fellow shoppers, for I have to find the shops, buy what I can and mark off my purchases on the list; but my fellow shoppers are not so engrossed that they cannot take note of me and presently I begin to have a vague feeling that everyone in the town is interested in me and my doings. These people are too polite to stare at me openly, but their eyes follow me and bore into my back.
Wherever I go I meet the same people—the people who stood beside me in the fish queue. At the baker’s, for instance, I hear the tag end of the story about the sea lions, and I bump into Grey Tweed coming out of the grocer’s. I discover the ironmonger’s shop in a back street, and endeavour to buy a scraper for Cook, and while I am doing so Grey Tweed appears and asks for screws. By this time she and I seem old friends; Grey Tweed says it is a lovely day and I agree enthusiastically.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” says Grey Tweed. “I heard you say Tocher House—are you helping Erica Clutterbuck?”
“Yes, I’m the new dogsbody,” I reply smiling.
“I don’t envy you,” returns Grey Tweed. “It must be a frightful job . . . no, I’m afraid those screws won’t do. I want them with round heads.”
Both my baskets are now full to bulging point and extremely heavy so I stagger back to the car, fairly well satisfied with my morning’s work. I have managed to obtain nearly everything I was told to get—I have even managed to obtain the elusive soap powder—and the car consenting to start up quite agreeably on the hill, I drive back to Tocher House without further adventure.
Todd is waiting for me at the gate and seems surprisingly pleased to see me. He explains that I’ve been on his mind the whole morning; he had intended to be there when I started to warn me about one or two things, but he was called away to attend to the refrigerator and I had gone when he got back. “You’d find the gears a wee bit different,” says Todd looking at me anxiously.
“Quite different,” I reply.
“And the brake,” adds Todd. “It’s not the newest kind of brake, Mrs. Christie. I’ve done my best with it, but it’s just not very reliable.”
“Not very,” I agree.
“But you managed fine,” says Todd, looking at me questioningly.
I assure Todd that no lives have been lost and rush off to find my employer and make a report of my mission.
THURSDAY, 7TH MARCH
A hotel such as this is a study in psychology and it is interesting to observe the different proportions of tiger and ape and ass in one’s fellow creatures. Many of the people are shadowy; they are average people and there is nothing outstanding about them; they are neither good-looking nor ugly; they have no peculiarities to awaken and hold one’s interest. To me these people are like a flock of sheep, yet to their families and their friends they must be individuals. Other people one notices at once and has no difficulty in remembering their faces and their names. There is Miss McQueen, for instance. She is by herself and obviously prefers to be, for she speaks to nobody and brings a book to every meal. Miss McQueen is about thirty-five and is tall with golden-red hair and a pale complexion, her thin face has a curiously tragic expression and I decide she is suffering from unrequited love. Mr. Wick also is alone, though by no means lonely for he speaks to everyone and his roving eye is always on the alert to sum up new arrivals, especially if there happens to be a good-looking young woman amongst the party. I have met Mr. Wick, of course, so we know each other now, or at least are acquainted sufficiently to wish one another good morning if we meet on the stairs. Mrs. Maloney is fat, with a fat white dog which she feeds at meals in a surreptitious manner. Mrs. Ovens is young and good-looking in a fluffy way. Her husband is in Germany. To be frank, I should not have noticed Mrs. Ovens particularly if it were not for her complaints about towels; she is constantly pursuing me and asking me to change the towels in her bedroom. Then there are the American ladies, of course. They are both “Mrs. Potting” which is a little puzzling until one discovers that they have married two brothers. Mrs. Wilbur Potting is tall and dark, Mrs. Dene Potting is tall and fair, they are the greatest friends and are pretty and lively and vitally interested in their fellow creatures. There is Mr. Whitesmith, who is mad on bridge and is forever trying to induce three of his fellow creatures to join him in a rubber. Mr. Whitesmith consults the barometer every morning and looks cheerful when it falls. There are the Stannards, mother, father and son, who fish industriously but so far have caught nothing. They have impressed themselves upon my notice because they are often late for dinner, and because Miss Clutterbuck dislikes them even more intensely than her other guests. There is a bald, middle-aged man who seems to do nothing from morning to night except read the Daily Telegraph. It is impossible that he should be reading it all the time, of course (for any literate person could read every word of our shadowy wartime newspapers in a couple of hours), but the fact remains that whenever my eyes fall upon this particular individual he is reading the Daily Telegraph. His wife is small and thin, she knits incessantly. There is the tall big-boned woman who resembles a horse—her name is Dove which is so unsuitable that I can remember it easily; she has lank brown hair, too long to be tidy, too short to be gathered into a bun. Miss Dove writes letters far into the night, a most inconvenient habit. The lights in the lounge must remain burning till Miss Dove has licked the last stamp. . . . Miss Clutterbuck has no patience with this lady’s peculiarities. There are two young women, they are nurses and have come to Tocher House for ten days’ holiday, so one would imagine that they would welcome the chance to get right away from all thought of the ills which beset the human frame, but not so. I sit near them in the lounge, having my tea, and listen to their conversation, not because I want to listen to it, but because I cannot he
lp hearing it unless I leave my tea and go away.
“It was awful,” declares the pretty one with the curly hair. “I couldn’t remember the difference between the two comas. I was just going to shoot a hundred grammes of glucose into the woman and then suddenly I wasn’t sure—”
“It’s easily done,” declares her friend. “I remember the first time I saw an insulin coma—diabetes mellitus it was. Sister called me to see it because she knew I’d be interested . . .”
There is something very sad about this—or so I feel; I would rather hear these two nice-looking young women discussing their love affairs.
So far I have made no effort to talk to any of Miss Clutterbuck’s guests, for one thing I have been too busy and for another too shy. Some of them have spoken to me in the way of business, Mr. Wick at the garage and Mrs. Ovens on the subject of towels, but there has been no social chat, and social chat is a part of my duties so I decide to tackle it bravely. There are not many people in the lounge after tea and Mrs. Maloney looks approachable; I approach somewhat diffidently and the lady smiles and suggests it is a nice day. I agree rapturously, and the ice is broken. We talk about Mrs. Maloney’s dog, a devoted animal with (according to its mistress) a really beautiful nature, but as I have seen it snap at some of the other guests I am inclined to doubt her word and refrain from blandishments.
“You’re helping Miss Clutterbuck, of course,” says Mrs. Maloney. “Such a capable woman, isn’t she? But of course she can’t do everything, and I’m sure you must be a great help to her. How delightful for her to have you—but not quite so delightful for you.”
“Oh yes,” I declare. “I mean it is very nice for me—very nice indeed . . .”
Mrs. Tim Gets a Job Page 6