The plan is brilliant, only marred by the unfortunate fact that when I go to bed I am tired; however that can’t be helped and by dint of reading a detective story and pinching myself at intervals I manage to stay awake. At half-past one I issue from my chamber attired in the navy-blue siren suit—a faithful copy of Mr. Churchill’s—which I wore at Donford for A.R.P.; I creep downstairs to the next floor and set about my task.
It is quite as difficult as I feared and even more strenuous for the piles of linen are unexpectedly heavy and there is more of it than I expected. Sheets hem-stitched, sheets plain, pillow slips of different patterns and sizes and textures, dozens of bath towels and hand towels, table linen of all kinds, extra pillows, bolsters and eiderdowns. I take them out of the cupboards and down from the shelves and lay them in neat piles all over the landing.
I am in the middle of the job, the landing is piled with linen and I am wading about in the midst of it, notebook in hand, when I hear a slight sound and looking up behold Miss Clutterbuck descending the stair from her bedroom. She is wearing a pink flannel night-dress with a frill round the neck and a royal-blue dressing gown of ample proportions. Her hair is standing on end and her eyes are wide and half-dazed with sleep.
“What the hell?” exclaims Miss Clutterbuck in muted accents—muted so as not to disturb her sleeping guests.
“It’s all right,” I assure her. “There wasn’t time to do it during the day.”
“You’re daft,” says Miss Clutterbuck firmly.
“It won’t take long.”
“Clean daft. Do you think I want you on my hands with a nervous breakdown?”
“I’m very strong.”
“If I’d wanted you to work twenty-four hours a day I’d have said so at the start.”
“I need the landing,” I explain, waving my hand at the piles of linen.
“It’s a straitjacket you need.”
“Honestly, Miss Clutterbuck—”
“Mrs. Christie, you know my views . . .”
This conversation takes place in whispers of course, and in whispers we continue to argue, quite fruitlessly, until at last I ask Miss Clutterbuck what she wants me to do as it is impossible to leave the landing strewn with linen.
“Have a little sense,” says Miss Clutterbuck. “Leave it and go back to your bed. Hope will help you in the morning.”
“Thank you,” I reply, infuriated. “I’ll either do this myself, now, or I’ll leave this house tomorrow.”
Miss Clutterbuck is defeated but she goes down fighting. She says she’ll save her breath to cool her porridge. She ties the cord of her dressing gown tightly round her waist, wades into the linen and begins sorting out pillow slips.
“Miss Clutterbuck!” I say in firm accents, which lose a little of their potency from the necessity to speak in whispers. “Miss Clutterbuck, the linen is my job. Please go back to bed and leave me to do it in my own way.”
“Mrs. Christie,” says Miss Clutterbuck. “I have no intention of going back to bed until the job is done.”
We glare at each other.
“Please, Miss Clutterbuck, go back to bed.”
“I will not,” declares Miss Clutterbuck. “You’re a stubborn woman—but so am I. There’s precious little to choose between us.” She pauses for a moment with an embroidered pillow slip in her hands, “And what’s more,” she says fiercely, “what’s more I’ll not work with any woman in the small hours and continue to address her by her surname. The thing is utterly ridiculous.”
She looks so fierce—and so funny—standing there in her night attire with the absurd pink frill round her neck that I am taken with sudden and uncontrollable laughter and am forced to bury my head in a feather bolster which happens to be conveniently near. When I have overcome my weakness I raise my head and behold Miss Clutterbuck with her face buried in an eiderdown quilt; her whole body heaving and quivering with the violence of her emotion.
It is some minutes before we are able to resume work . . . it is nearly an hour before we have finished. The linen is now back upon the shelves, laid out in neat piles and duly listed. The task has been arduous but well worthwhile and I survey the result of our labours with a satisfied air.
“Well, I hope you’re pleased,” says Miss Clutterbuck or Erica, as I must try to call her (to be frank I find it extremely difficult to summon up the necessary cheek).
“I’m delighted,” I reply. “It’s simply splendid. I can’t thank you enough for helping me.”
“Hrrmph!” says Erica disgustedly. She hates being thanked.
Having completed our task and locked the door of the linen room we descend to the kitchen premises in search of food. Erica says she is ravenous, hard work always affects her like this which is the reason she can’t get down her weight.
“I’ve lost my beauty sleep, and this extra meal will put me up half a pound,” declares Erica in grumbling tones as she raids the larder for cold meat and the remains of a syrup tart . . . and now Erica shows another human weakness, a weakness which surprises me in a woman of her determination and strength of character. Erica is frightened of mice.
FRIDAY, 22ND MARCH
Today I receive two letters, one from Bryan and the other from Tim. As Bryan’s is the shorter I read it first.
“Dear Mum,
Edgeburton has asked me to go with him to stay with his grandfather for the first fortnight of the holidays. Would this be all right? I could come on to Tocher House for the second fortnight. I daresay you remember me telling you about old Hedgehog’s grandfather, he is Sir Percy Edgeburton and lives at Langmer’s End. Hedgehog is terrified of him and says it will be awful if he has to go alone, that’s why he wants me. Langmer’s End is a big place and there are horses for us to ride so it ought to be quite good fun, especially as Hedgehog says his grandfather will not bother about us and we can do as we like as long as we are in time for meals. I think I should go, don’t you? It would be a new experience for me. Let me know soon so that we can write and tell Sir Percy.
Lots of love from
Bryan
P.S. E’s G. asked him to bring a friend so it will be all right.”
This letter amuses me a good deal for Edgeburton is an old friend of Bryan’s; they were at prep school together and went on together to Harton, and although they sometimes fall out they have stuck together consistently through thick and thin. Edgeburton’s grandfather is well-known to me by repute; he writes long letters to his grandson which Bryan says are “full of long words” and which necessitate the use of a dictionary. Bryan, who has a ready pen, usually helps to compose a suitable answer. As regards the visit, Bryan must certainly go; as he says himself it will be a new experience for him and a fortnight at Tocher will probably be quite enough.
I lay aside Bryan’s letter to answer and take up Tim’s.
“. . . Don’t stay a moment longer in that dreadful hotel,” writes Tim firmly. “I can’t bear to think of you slaving for that extraordinary woman. Chuck it, for goodness sake, and go and stay with Aunt Posy at Cobstead. I thought it sounded most unsuitable when you first told me about it (you’re awfully apt to dash into things, you know) and I am all the more worried because I am so far away and don’t know what is happening. However there is no harm done. You must give the woman a week’s wages, or whatever the arrangement is, and leave at once.”
Of course this letter is in answer to the letter I wrote Tim on my arrival at Tocher House when I felt anything but cheerful. I had no intention of worrying Tim, and purposely refrained from disclosing the full story of Miss Clutterbuck’s peculiar behaviour, but Tim must have read between the lines and despite my care in its composition my letter must have had a plaintive tone. By this time Tim will have received another letter—a cheerful one—so I can only hope he has stopped worrying and is quite happy about me.
Looking at myself in the mirror I am suddenly assailed by a queer sensation . . . am I really myself? Am I really Tim’s wife and Betty’s mother or somebody e
lse—Miss Clutterbuck’s assistant? This me, the Hester of Tocher House, is quite different from the Donford Hester, she has quite different thoughts and a different attitude of mind. Instead of being completely occupied with the full-time job of wife and mother she is completely occupied with the job of running a hotel. This Hester is so busy, so caught up into the whirl of her new life that the old life seems like a dream, she has no time to think during the day, and at night she is tired and falls asleep at once and does not stir till morning. No time to think—yes, that is the solution of the mystery, that is the reason Hester has stepped out of the old life and is so comfortably ensconced in the new.
I take up Tim’s letter. He continues:
“There is not much chance of getting you out here at the moment, I’m afraid. You will see by the papers we are having some unpleasantnesses. Perhaps by the autumn things will have settled down and you and Annie could come to Egypt for the winter. If not we shall just have to grin and bear it until I can get home—that won’t be soon! The trouble is everyone wants to get home and regulars will have to stick it out until the world settles down. I suppose it will in time! In my humble opinion demobilization is going too fast. (We have had enough bother winning the war and we should not throw away the fruits of victory by dispersing our armies before everything is settled.) But this opinion is too unpopular to pronounce aloud, indeed if I pronounced it aloud in mess it would cause a mild riot. It was funny your meeting Roger Elden in the train, I remember him well—an awfully nice fellow—I am glad he came through all right. I remember him asking about your photograph. He was interested in it because it was like his wife. Elden’s wife died when their first child was born, so this clears up your little mystery, doesn’t it?”
It clears up the mystery completely, of course. Major Elden remembered my face because I was like his wife, not because I was particularly beautiful or interesting. Fortunately this does not disappoint me at all. As a matter of fact my mind has been so occupied with other matters that I had almost forgotten Major Elden.
Tim continues: “I have got a parcel for you and will send it by hand with the first person who takes the road for home. I hope the contents of the parcel will be acceptable, it was a little difficult to choose. I rather like the pink silk pyjamas and wish with all my heart I could be there to see you wearing them . . .”
The writer becomes rather silly at this point but just at the end he pulls himself together again. “Oh, about that dream of mine. It was a very vivid dream—but here is Bollings to take the letters to the post. I will tell you all about it in my next . . .”
SATURDAY, 23RD MARCH
It is early morning. I awake to hear the door opening and am aware it is Hope with my tea. As the sight of Hope’s uncheerful countenance is a bad beginning to a day I shut my eyes firmly and play possum. Hope’s method of calling me never varies, she marches in like a grenadier, slams down the tray and marches out again. There are no fine points about it. If the bursting open of my bedroom door does not rouse me from my slumbers the rattle of the teacup close to my ear has the desired effect. Once or twice I have slept through this to be awakened by the crash of the door which signals the departure of Hope. Today, however, she is unusually quiet. Her step is scarcely audible and the tray is deposited upon my bedside table without a sound, and wonder of wonders—I can hear her moving about my room putting things straight, shutting the window and switching on the electric fire. I open one eye and peep at her over the folded sheet . . . and it isn’t Hope at all!
“Annie!” I cry, sitting up in bed with a bound.
Annie gives a startled yelp. “Lor’!” she exclaims. “And me thinking you were asleep! What a fright I got!”
“But, Annie, you weren’t coming till next week!”
“I know,” agrees Annie. “But what with one thing and another . . . to tell the truth there was such a crowd in the house and I got a bit tired of washing dishes.”
“But surely—”
“Oh, it was my own fault, of course. I said I’d do the dishes to give Ellen a bit of a rest, but I didn’t bargain for doing it even on for the whole family.”
She comes and stands beside the bed and we look at each other with satisfaction. It is delightful to see Annie again, it makes me feel more like myself; for Annie is a part of my real life in which Tocher House is only an interlude. The sight of Annie makes Tim more real to me and brings Bryan and Betty nearer.
“Sit down, Annie,” I say, moving my feet to one side and making room for her.
Annie sits down. “But I can’t stay long,” she warns me. “I’ve got all this floor to wake and half the second floor.
“You’re not going to be overworked, are you?”
“I’ll take good care of that,” declares Annie.
“I’m sorry your holiday wasn’t a success.”
“It wasn’t as bad as that, really,” says Annie thoughtfully. “I enjoyed the first bit all right, but Ellen and me didn’t seem to have much in common. She’s my own sister, of course, but somehow I felt a bit out of it. Ellen said I’d changed—well, perhaps I have. It’s funny, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and so I am; especially as I have a feeling it is largely my fault. Annie has changed (in my opinion for the better) but is it for the better if it alienates her from her family?
“You needn’t be sorry,” says Annie. “It’s just that I’ve got used to different ways, that’s all. Ellen has got Bert and the children and she’s quite happy in her own way. I’ve got Bill and you and the Colonel and Bryan and Betty, so I’m all right. I’ll have children of my own someday and I’ll see to it they’re properly brought up—not like Ellen’s children. Pictures three nights a week!” exclaims Annie scornfully. “Meals all anyhow, going to bed any time they like, and little Ellen refusing to drink milk! No wonder they’re pale and puny and always having colds!”
“I hope you didn’t—”
“I told Ellen,” says Annie, nodding. “It wasn’t a bit of good and I knew it wouldn’t be, but it was my duty to tell her, and I didn’t mince it either. It was my duty,” says Annie, with conscious rectitude.
I have a momentary feeling of sympathy for the unhappy Ellen, a sacrifice on the altar of Annie’s duty—or at least Annie’s conception of her duty. Whether or not her conception was right it is difficult to say.
“This isn’t a bad place, is it?” continues Annie in conspiratorial tones. “I got here late last night and cook gave me a hot supper which I didn’t expect, really. The food seems good and I’ve got a comfortable bed. The only snag so far is that Clara. She’s a misery, isn’t she?”
“Clara?”
“Of course she’s had a good deal of trouble,” admits Annie, with a judicial air. “She hasn’t had a bed of roses, exactly, what with her father drinking himself to death and being jilted by the man she was going to marry at the very last minute, and getting her front teeth knocked out in a bus accident—but all that wasn’t yesterday by any means and she might have got over it by this time.”
“Who is your unfortunate friend?” I enquire, but Annie is wound up and takes no notice.
“Other people have troubles,” she continues. “They don’t just sit down and brood for the rest of their lives. It’s my belief Clara would be all the better for a good shake-up. I’d like to shake her up and tell her to get on with it.”
I can see the missionary spirit alight in Annie’s eye. She will think it her duty to shake up the unfortunate Clara.
“Oh well,” says Annie with a sigh. “There’s always something, isn’t there? I like somebody with a bit more life about them—but you can’t have everything, it wouldn’t be good for you, I don’t suppose. I’ll just have to bear with Clara as best I can.”
“Annie, who is Clara?” I enquire.
“Clara!” exclaims Annie in amazement. “You know Clara!”
“No, I don’t. I never heard of her.”
“Clara, the head housemaid!”
�
��Hope!”
“That’s right. Clara Hope.”
“Oh, I thought it was Hope something!”
“Hope on hope ever,” says Annie chuckling. “She doesn’t, that’s the whole trouble . . . but if I don’t get on with my work there’ll be wigs on the green so I’d better go.” She leaves me with a good deal to think of one way and another . . . and first I think about Annie herself and my relationship with her. We have been good friends for years, Annie and I, but today we seem to have moved a big step further. She has never spoken to me so confidentially before, never taken me right inside and showed me her feelings so plainly. Perhaps it is because we are now both employees of Miss Clutterbuck, but I prefer to think it is because we find ourselves together in strange surroundings.
MONDAY, 25TH MARCH
On coming downstairs rather early for dinner I am interested to see a good-sized salmon displayed upon the hall table. It has been killed by Mr. Stannard, of course, or perhaps by his son. These two gentlemen have been fishing industriously ever since their arrival at Tocher House, but this is the first fruits of their labour. Erica does not like the Stannards; the father is a short thickset man with a white moustache stained with nicotine from innumerable cigarettes; he is a London business man—business unspecified—and his aitches are not always secure. Captain Stannard is tall and lean and dark; he has a slightly vague look about him, as if he were thinking of something else (something that gives him no pleasure to judge from his expression). Mrs. Stannard is so small and quiet and frightened as to be almost invisible to the naked eye. In Erica’s opinion (trenchantly expressed) the Stannards are a blot upon the landscape, for not only are they substandard (the horrible pun is Erica’s), dull and unsociable, but they can’t kill salmon. (It is, says Erica, a very bad advertisement for Tocher when people go out and flog the water for days without result. She wishes she had never taken the Stannards; she wishes they would go away; sometimes, when more than usually irritated, she wishes they would fall into the river and be drowned.)
Mrs. Tim Gets a Job Page 10