Having lunched together, Tony and I separate and go our ways for I have some shopping to do and he has business to transact. I shop industriously—but without notable success—until it is time to make my appearance at Pinkie’s flat. Pinkie is expecting me to tea. It seems years since I climbed the three flights of stairs for so much has happened in the interval, and perhaps this is why I have forgotten which is Pinkie’s door. There are two doors on the top landing, one on the right and the other on the left—neither of them bears the name of Loudon.
I hesitate, and just at that moment the door on the left flies open and Pinkie rushes out.
“I’ve been listening for you with both ears!” she cries, embracing me warmly. “I had a sort of feeling you’d ring the wrong bell, and the man is never there which makes it even more awkward. People stand for hours outside that door and then go away thinking I’m out—it’s perfectly sickening. Of course it isn’t so bad if it’s somebody I don’t want to see, but it never is, really.” She seizes my suitcase and leads the way in.
“D’you know what I’ve done?” continues Pinkie. “You’ll think I’m mad, of course, but it was just a sudden impulse and I gave way to it before I thought it out properly. I’ve taken tickets for Peter Pan!”
“Tonight!”
“Yes, tonight,” nods Pinkie. “We don’t need to go if you hate the idea.”
I am delighted at the idea and tell her so. It will be fun to see Peter Pan again.
“That’s all right,” says Pinkie, heaving a sigh of relief. “I’ve been wondering whether it was one of my silly impulses—but if you’re pleased it isn’t. We’ll have a thorough meal now, shall we? Then we can have something light when we get home. Come and talk to me while I make an omelet.”
Pinkie wants to know “all about everything” and while she knocks up an omelet I do my best to satisfy her curiosity. I tell her what I do at Tocher House and about the people there, especially about Erica.
“She sounds mad,” says Pinkie as she folds the omelet and slides it onto a plate. “She sounds revolting, Hester.”
“Then I haven’t described her properly,” I reply.
By this time the “thorough meal” is prepared and we sit down and do it full justice for Pinkie’s appetite is as healthy as ever and the east coast air has made me extremely hungry. We wash the dishes, shut up the flat and walk to the theatre, still talking hard about an extraordinary variety of subjects interesting to us both. Pinkie and I are the unfashionable sort of people who like to be early at the theatre. We watch the people coming in and finding their seats, we discuss the curtain which is a queer medley of mediaeval figures, knights jousting while their squires look on, and boys with greyhounds in leash. There is something very exciting about the last few minutes before the curtain rises (especially if one has not been to a theatre for years) and I am glad I have not missed it.
Peter Pan has lost none of its old magic. Perhaps it is a little more boisterous than of yore, a little less fairy-like and other-worldly. Celia Lipton who plays Peter is a gallant figure obviously enjoying her part, and Wendy is sweet and appealing. I am swept away into this half-fairy, half-realistic dream and the everyday world is forgotten.
Halfway through the performance Pinkie gives me a little nudge and murmurs something about tea, but I am so enthralled with Peter and Wendy that tea seems an unnecessary interruption.
“Don’t let’s bother,” I whisper—and Pinkie immediately subsides.
The play is over, the curtain has fallen for the last time. As is so often the case in Barrie’s plays we are left with an unresolved doubt in our minds. Peter is not really happy alone in his nest, he has chosen his way of life but it is a second-best choice. What will happen when Wendy grows up and leaves Peter behind? Will Wendy marry an ordinary human being and have ordinary human children?
We walk home, arm in arm; the night is warm and dark and above the jagged outline of the houses the moon is bright. We discuss the play and the actors, but chiefly Peter and Wendy and their problems. Pinkie seems a trifle distrait but my head is full of the play and I feel quite able to do most of the talking.
As we cross the West End Pinkie interrupts me to ask if I remembered to shut the sitting-room window before we came out, and I am able to assure her that I did.
“I was afraid so,” says Pinkie with a little sigh. “I mean I was almost sure I saw you doing it.”
“You told me to!” I exclaim. “You said there were cat-burglars in Edinburgh and we must shut everything securely!”
“Yes, darling, but I didn’t know I was going to lose the key,” says Pinkie reasonably.
“The key of the door!”
“Yes,” says Pinkie. “I told you about it when we were in the theatre—don’t you remember? I said I’d lost the key and you said, don’t let’s bother—and of course you were too right. It was no use spoiling all our pleasure by worrying about the beastly key until we had to. But now we have to,” says Pinkie with another bigger sigh.
“Pinkie, I thought you said tea!”
“No, key,” she replies, squeezing my arm. “Key, darling. Of course there’s always the chance I may have left it in the door—I do that, occasionally—if not I’m afraid it’s going to be rather a nuisance.”
We hasten our steps. We climb the three flights of stairs. The key is not in the door.
“That’s that,” says Pinkie.
“What about the other flat?” I enquire, pointing to the door on the right of the landing.
“No good,” replies Pinkie. “It’s a man and he’s always away from home. As a matter of fact I’ve never seen him. If one of the windows were open we might borrow a ladder, but I’m sure they’re all shut—and it would have to be a fireman’s ladder to reach this floor.”
“A policeman,” I murmur—for I have a tremendous faith in the initiative and resource of the police.
“If we could find one . . .” says Pinkie hopelessly.
We descend the stairs slowly. I have now begun to realize the extent of the calamity. What on earth are we to do?
There is no policeman to be seen (why should there be?) and anyhow, as Pinkie says, what could he do except conduct us to the Police Station for the night?
“Honestly, Hester,” says Pinkie. “A policeman wouldn’t be any help at all. We needn’t waste time looking for one.”
We stand for several minutes looking up at the windows. It is very cold by this time, and seems all the colder because the moon is so bright. It sails placidly in the western sky and casts jagged shadows of jutting eaves and towering chimney-pots across the street.
“I wish Peter were here,” says Pinkie with a little shiver.
“Peter?”
“Peter Pan,” she explains. “Wings would be useful, wouldn’t they? I’ve often wanted wings.”
This desire is fairly common, but I refuse to discuss the matter now. Instead I urge Pinkie to think of someone—some friend who lives near and could help us in our plight.
“The boy next door!” cries Pinkie. “Of course—why didn’t I think of him sooner? It’s a marvellous idea. How clever of you, Hester!”
The idea is not mine at all and I hasten to disclaim it.
The next door house is smaller than its neigbours and is not divided into flats. I am about to ask Pinkie if she knows her next door neigbours well enough to knock them up at this late hour, but before I can do so Pinkie has rung the bell. After a long wait (during which Pinkie explains that she does not know them at all) the bolts are withdrawn and the door opened by a middle-aged lady with grey hair and a somewhat forbidding expression. Her expression becomes even less cordial when she sees us and hears our tale of woe, and she shows no desire to help us nor to rouse her son who has gone to bed some time ago and is probably fast asleep. If I were alone I should now withdraw hurriedly and with profuse apologies but Pinkie is made of sterner stuff. Pinkie edges her way into the hall and explains the desperate nature of our plight, she informs the lady that
I am extremely delicate and may get bronchitis or even pneumonia if some shelter cannot be found.
“What do you think we should do?” asks Pinkie anxiously.
The lady replies that she thinks we should go to a hotel.
At this moment a figure in pyjamas appears on the stairs and enquires what’s up.
“Go back to bed at once, Adam,” says his mother firmly.
“But what’s up?” asks Adam. He begins to come down. His feet are bare, his blue-striped pyjama jacket is open in front and discloses a large expanse of well-developed chest; his brown hair is standing straight on end and his eyes are dazed with sleep. Suddenly he sees two strange females standing in the hall and, conscious of his déshabillé, he gives a horrified yelp and sprints back to his bedroom.
“You see!” says his mother gravely. “Adam couldn’t possibly do anything to help you. The only thing to do is to go to a hotel for the night.”
“Yes,” says Pinkie meekly. “Yes, that seems the only thing,” but instead of making any movement in the direction of the door she still lingers. “It must be lovely for you to have him safely home,” says Pinkie.
His mother agrees that it is. She adds that Adam was in Commandos which made it even more worrying.
“How marvellous!” exclaims Pinkie. “He must be terribly brave.”
His mother laughs in a deprecating way and admits that Adam has been awarded the M.C.
“How marvellous!” says Pinkie again. “He’s so young, too. You must be terribly proud of him.”
His mother admits that she is.
All this is very nice, of course, but it is not getting us any further, and as it is already eleven o’clock I feel that something definite must be done; I tug Pinkie’s arm in a gentle but purposeful manner and try to get her away. Pinkie takes no notice at all. She continues to enquire about Adam; and Adam’s mother—as is the nature of mothers—is not unwilling to discuss her son. In fact she becomes quite animated on the subject and requires very little encouragement. We hear about Adam’s prowess on the cricket field, before Hitler plunged the world into total war; we hear about Adam aged eight years old winning a cup for swimming. I feel pretty sure that at this rate we shall soon be hearing about Adam in his cradle but before we have reached this era a diversion is caused by the reappearance of Adam himself, this time quite decently attired in grey slacks and a blue pullover with a turtle neck.
Pinkie sees him first—can she have been keeping one eye on the stairs? “Oh, here he is!” exclaims Pinkie joyfully.
The young man’s mother is not so pleased, she murmurs something about the lateness of the hour but nobody takes any notice.
“Come into the dining room, won’t you?” says young Adam, throwing open the door and smiling at us both, but chiefly at Pinkie. “We could have drinks or something. You live next door, don’t you?”
Pinkie says yes, she does, and adds that she has seen the young man out with his dog—a darling golden retriever.
“He is rather nice,” agrees Adam. “Do come in. We’ve got some gin—”
“I really think it’s a little late for drinks,” says our hostess feebly.
“My dear lamb it’s never too late for drinks,” says Adam firmly. “Nor too early either, if it comes to that.”
“But these ladies are going to a hotel.”
“We’ll all go to a hotel,” cries Adam in delight. “We’ll make a night of it—that’s what we’ll do. It’s a grand idea—just give me five minutes to change into decent clothes—”
“It would be lovely,” nods Pinkie. “We’ll do it some other time, but not tonight.”
“Not tonight?” he asks hesitating with one foot on the stairs.
“No,” says Pinkie. “Mrs. Christie and I are a bit jaded tonight. All we want is to get into the flat. I’ve been so silly,” says Pinkie, opening her blue eyes very wide and looking at him appealingly. “I’ve lost the key of the door—so you see?”
Adam sees at once. He is a most intelligent young man.
He smiles and says this is absolutely up his street. Pinkie couldn’t have come to anyone better able to deal with the situation, says Adam cheerfully.
“We can’t do anything tonight,” objects his mother. “Tomorrow we can get a locksmith to come and take the lock off the door, but—”
Adam says there is absolutely no need for that, the point is shall he get out of his bedroom window and crawl along the coping stone, or would the roof be better.
“Adam, you’ll kill yourself!” cries his mother in alarm.
“Oh!” exclaims Pinkie. “But that would be marvellous! The only thing is I’m afraid all the windows are shut.”
This does not daunt Adam in the least. He explains that you can break a hole in the glass and put your hand through. “But perhaps the roof would be better,” he adds thoughtfully.
“Our roof is higher, of course,” Pinkie reminds him.
“A rope is the answer,” says Adam without hesitation.
“You can’t go up on the roof tonight,” says his mother aghast.
“Of course I can!” cries Adam. “Our roof is child’s play to some of the places I’ve been. I could go all over Edinburgh by roof—as a matter of fact I’ve often thought it would be rather amusing. Hold on till I find a rope.”
He finds a rope and we all go upstairs (all except Adam’s mother who has given up the unequal struggle in despair). We climb a narrow stairway and then an iron ladder and emerge through a trap door onto a flat zinc-covered roof.
“Gorgeous night!” exclaims Adam, sniffing the air like a young war horse. “Look at the moon! Look at the heavenly view over the Forth!”
It certainly is lovely, so bright and clear and windless. There is a faint smell of salt in the air from the far off sea.
In spite of his pleasure in the beauty of the night the young man wastes no time—he merely admires it en passant and goes about his task. To me his task looks formidable for the roof of Pinkie’s flat is a whole story higher and there is no way that I can see of climbing the smooth stone wall.
“You can’t do it,” says Pinkie, who has come to the same conclusion. “I mean it’s no use breaking your leg. We’ll just have to—”
“Of course I can do it,” declares Adam. He makes a noose in the rope, coils it carefully and flings it into the air; the rope curls upward uncoiling as it goes and settles snugly over a chimney. “There,” says Adam, with satisfaction. “My hand hasn’t lost its cunning. If that chimney pot is reasonably secure—and I think it is—”
“You’re absolutely marvellous,” declares Pinkie earnestly.
Adam smiles at her, he swarms up the rope and disappears.
“Isn’t he marvellous!” says Pinkie with a sigh of profound admiration. “It’s no wonder we won the war. Adam gives me the sort of feeling that he could do anything.”
I admit that I have exactly the same sort of feeling about the young man.
After a few minutes Adam’s head appears over the row of chimney pots. “Hullo!” he says. “It’s a piece of cake—the bathroom skylight—I’ll meet you at the door.”
Pinkie and I descend. We cannot find our hostess to say good-bye—but perhaps that is just as well. We let ourselves into the street and toil up the stairs. There is nobody on the landing and everything is quiet.
“You’d think he would be here before us,” says Pinkie in some anxiety. “He hadn’t nearly so far to go.”
I put my ear against the door of Pinkie’s flat but there is not a sound to be heard.
“What can have happened!” I exclaim.
“Perhaps he’s lying on the bathroom floor with a broken leg,” says Pinkie in horrified tones.
We look at each other in dismay—but at this moment the door of the other flat bursts open and Adam appears followed by another man, slightly older than himself; they both seem somewhat heated and upset.
“There!” cries Adam, pointing to us. “There they are. I told you—it was a mistake, that�
��s all. I got in through the wrong skylight—”
“A damned funny mistake!” cries the other young man angrily. “You needn’t think you’ll get off with it so easily—I shall telephone to the police—you’re nothing more than a burglar. If I hadn’t happened to hear you—” He stops suddenly in mid-flight and gives an odd sort of choke . . . he gazes at Pinkie with goggling eyes.
Having known Pinkie for years, I have had plenty of opportunities to observe the impact of her personality upon susceptible members of the sterner sex so I am not really surprised to see the young man go down before her like a nine-pin. There is something positively dynamic about Pinkie. She is lovely to look at, of course, but there is more to it than that, for quite a number of girls are lovely to look at. What is it, I wonder. How can the thing be explained? I love Pinkie dearly but I cannot understand why the mere sight of her should have such a devastating effect.
“Oh!” says the young man, becoming very red in the face. “Oh, I’m . . . s’sorry.”
“How dreadful for you!” exclaims Pinkie in sympathetic tones. “Of course you thought Adam was a burglar—and of course the whole thing is absolutely all my fault for being such a fool and losing the key. No wonder you’re angry!”
The young man is heard to murmur that he isn’t angry—not in the least—and of course he understands perfectly; he was in the middle of reading a detective novel which is probably the reason he leapt to the conclusion that Adam was a burglar . . .
Pinkie says of course he did—anybody would—and there are heaps of burglars about in Edinburgh; a friend of hers had her house burgled only last week.
Adam, who is getting slightly restive, says time is being wasted. He will go back through the young man’s skylight and come down through Pinkie’s. The two skylights are close together, says Adam, and he chose the first one because when he looked into the bathroom he saw a shelf stacked with creams and bath powders and things, and he was sure they belonged to Pinkie.
“They belong to my mother,” says the other young man hastily. “She’s here for the weekend. She goes in for bath powder in a large way.”
Mrs. Tim Gets a Job Page 18