by Anne Weale
“But surely that was long before Queen Victoria’s time? I’ve never seen a peepshow souvenir which looked earlier than about 1870.”
No, you wouldn’t. Lord Stanhope invented the microscopic lens, but the first microphotographs were taken in 1839 by a man in Manchester called Dancer. They weren’t very successful until someone else invented the wet-plate process in 1851, but Dancer has the best claim to being the ‘father’ of modern micro-copying systems. Do you realise that it’s possible now to microprint a hundred pages of text in the space of a page of ordinary print?”
I know museums and libraries microfilm newspapers and documents to save space in their archives, and to duplicate priceless originals. But somehow I hadn’t connected modern microfilming with Victorian peepshow souvenirs,” said Imelda. “How did you come to find out all this?”
“While I was researching the Franco-Prussian War and the siege of Paris.”
“Researching?”
Was it only her imagination, or had he, for a fraction of a second, the look of someone caught by a slip of the tongue?
“Reading about,” he corrected himself, rather curtly. “As you probably know, Paris was besieged by the Prussians for nearly five months, and at first the only way the French inside could contact the French outside was by balloon. Because of the prevailing winds, it was only a one-way contact, so next they tried sending out a balloon full of racing pigeons. The snag with that idea was that ordinary despatches were so heavy that most of the three hundred pigeons were either shot down by Prussian guns, or caught by Prussian-trained falcons.”
He paused. Thinking he had detected that she was still wondering why he had used the word “researched”, she said hastily, “Poor birds! What happened then?”
“Someone thought of Rene Dagron. He had started out as a portrait photographer, but then he had seen the commercial possibilities of microphotographs in the form of souvenir fancy goods like this” - waving the paper-knife. “The French Government gave him a contract to organise a microscopic despatch service. He had to escape from Paris first, which he did; and then he was able to reduce the necessary despatches to about the size of a matchbox label, and eighteen of them could be fitted in a glass tube. Attached to a pigeon’s tail, the tube didn’t slow down its speed, or make it reduce its flying height. After the war, Dagron was asked to photograph all the records of a French insurance company. So even in 1871, they were beginning to see the scope of the thing.”
“That’s fascinating,” said Imelda. “I’ve changed my mind. I shan’t put that paper-knife in the shop. I’ll keep it, and start a collection of peepshow souvenirs.”
Charles replaced the knife on the table. “I didn’t come
here to give you a lecture on French history,” he said. “I wanted to ask a favour of you, Imelda.”
“A favour?”
He studied her face for some moments, his own expression grave and very searching. “Perhaps ‘favour’ is too light a word. It may be too much to expect of you.” “I shouldn’t think so. What is it?”
“Would you close the shop for a fortnight, and go to Menorca for me?”
CHAPTER V
“Go to Menorca?” she echoed, taken aback.
“My aunt has had to cut short her holiday. Her mother- in-law has had an accident, and there’s no one else to look after her invalid father-in-law while his wife is in hospital. I had a cable from Menorca this afternoon. My aunt is already on her way back to England, which means that my grandmother is alone with the children.”
He paused, his dark eyebrows contracted. “I have an important engagement in London at the end of the week after next. I don’t want to cancel it, but I would do so rather than leave her alone out there. A possible compromise is to find someone willing to hold the fort until I’m clear of commitments. Naturally I thought of you.” “Naturally?” Imelda repeated, with an interrogative inflection. “Why me? Why not ... Beatrix?”
His face took on a peculiarly enigmatic expression. “My grandmother doesn’t like Beatrix. She does like you.” Again he paused. “I realise it’s a great deal to ask, but you haven’t mentioned any holiday plans of your own and I should think you could do with a break. You’ve had a taxing year; changing your whole way of life, and launching a business.”
Imelda was still too astounded to collect her thoughts and, misinterpreting her silence, Charles added, “If you’re worrying about possible expenses - don’t! A holiday at Na Vell doesn’t call for a stack of new clothes, and my proposition naturally includes all your travelling expenses. I would run you down to Gatwick in the car, and as far as the flight is concerned there are several charter schemes which allow the owners of houses in the Mediterranean to fly themselves and their families there and back at very cheap rates.”
“But I’m not a member of your family.”
“The scheme to which I subscribe is fairly elastic on that point. It includes fiancées, girl-friends, and au pairs. You wouldn’t object to being listed as my girl-friend, would you?”
The seriousness with which he had been discussing the subject was leavened by a lurking glint of mockery.
“Wouldn’t ‘grandmother’s help’ be more accurate?” Imelda replied. “But aren’t all charter flights fully booked during the high season?”
“Yes, but there are generally some last-minute cancellations, and I daresay I can pull a few strings. I was at school with the managing director of this airline.”
“When would you want to go? Immediately, I suppose? Tomorrow, if possible?”
“Tomorrow would be ideal, assuming I can get you a seat on the flight. But can you be ready as soon as that?” “I don’t see why not. You say I shan’t need many clothes.”
“No, once you’re accustomed to the sun you’ll need only a bathing suit. Even Mahon, the island’s capital, is only a small market town. The locals dress up for the evening paseo in the main square, and one sees some extraordinary rigs on tourists drinking in the pavement cafe of the American Bar. But most of the people with summer houses avoid Mahon when it’s crowded. You could take one respectable dress, but you won’t need more than one.” “Have you any idea what time we should have to set out tomorrow?”
“About eight o’clock, unless the flights have been retimed, which is unlikely.” He rose to his feet. “I’d better be off. I have several telephone calls to make, and no doubt you will want to explain the situation to your people.” He moved to the door. “Are you never nervous on your own here?”
“I might be jumpy in an isolated country cottage, but not here at the heart of the village. I can’t help thinking of it as a village, even if, officially, it is a town.”
“Nevertheless you’re wise to keep a chain on your door after dark. Elderly people and women on their own can’t be too careful these days. Goodnight, Imelda - and thank you for coming to the rescue.”
“Goodnight, Charles.” As she closed the door after him, she remembered thinking earlier on that his departure would leave her in a turmoil again. She had not envisaged such a turmoil!
Mrs. Dereham, when she heard what had happened, said, “But this is marvellous news, Melly. A fortnight in the sun with nothing to do but swim and keep an eye on the children will do you the world of good, darling. You were looking rather peaky when you came home. I think opening the shop has been more of a strain than you realise.”
“Perhaps,” Imelda agreed, glad that her mother had no inkling of the much greater strain of loving an unsuitable man.
“The Wingfields must think a lot of you to suggest such a thing,” went on her mother. “Don’t lose your heart to any of the island Don Juans, will you?” - laughing. “We don’t mind you living in Norfolk, but Menorca is rather too remote.”
After the telephone call to London, Imelda glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. After some moments of indecision, she put on her raincoat and went to get the car out.
Although she knew the road in which Sam lived, she did not know the numb
er of his parents’ house. However, he had told her that for lack of a garage he left his van in the street at night. Unless he had gone out for the evening, the van would show her where to find him.
To her relief he was at home. But although the van, and a car which presumably belonged to his father, were parked outside the unkempt privet hedge of No. 17, there were no lights showing in the sitting-room or the front bedroom.
As Imelda followed the cement path which led along the side of the house, she heard the first sounds of the row, and when she turned the corner and approached the back door the volume of noise increased. At first she thought there were several people involved, and then she realised that one contributor to the uproar was a television disc jockey.
In other circumstances, she would have postponed her call. But this was an errand which could not be put off. She braced herself, and rapped loudly on the door.
At once there was silence within, apart from the background of too-loud “pop” music. A few seconds later the door was flung open by an angry-looking woman whom Imelda took to be Sam’s mother.
“Mrs. Mutford? I’m Imelda Calthorpe. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but could I have a word with Sam, please?”
Mrs. Mutford’s grim expression gave place to surprise and curiosity. “He’s upstairs. You’d better come in,” she suggested ungraciously, and with no apparent embarrassment at finding that her high-pitched abuse had been overheard by a stranger.
The back door opened into a kitchen which adjoined a living room in a state of disorder which made Imelda wonder how any woman could bear to live in such a muddle. Mr. Mutford was slumped in a chair, glowering at a large colour television. He glanced sourly at their visitor, and acknowledged her “Good evening” with a jerk of his head before returning his attention to the screen.
The house was evidently one of those in which the staircase ran up between the walls of the front and back rooms. Mrs. Mutford opened the inner door, and screamed up the stairs, “Sam! Sam! There’s a young lady come to see you!”
She then returned to the room, and lit a cigarette, eyeing Imelda through the jets of smoke she exhaled from her nostrils. She did not ask her to sit down, and indeed there was nowhere to sit as Mr. Mutford was occupying the only armchair, and the upright chairs round the table bore piles of unironed washing, old newspapers, discarded clothing and other clutter. The table itself had not been cleared for some time, possibly not since breakfast, if a packet of cereal and an empty milk bottle had any significance. Probably they did not, Imelda reflected. It seemed the sort of household where cereal might be part of any and every meal to save the bother of preparing more troublesome fare.
She did not have to submit to Mrs. Mutford’s scrutiny for long. In less than two minutes after his mother’s bawled announcement, Sam hurried downstairs.
“What’s up? Something wrong?” he demanded.
Imelda shook her head. “No - merely something unexpected which I wanted to tell you about.”
Seeing that, once his first thought that she might be in trouble had been allayed, he was embarrassed about her seeing the condition of his home and hearing the violent altercation which had been in progress some minutes earlier, she added quickly, “Perhaps we could talk in the car. I don’t want to interrupt your father’s programme.”
“Good idea.” In his desire to escape from the causes of his chagrin, Sam almost hustled her out of the house. “I suppose you heard the slanging match,” he said bitterly, following her down the path.
“Most people have a row now and then, and they wouldn’t expect a caller at this time of night,” Imelda said matter-of-factly. “Sam, I have to go away for a fortnight. What I’m wondering is whether you would be willing to run the shop during my absence?”
They were facing each other across the roof of her car as she put the question, and before he could answer she opened the driver’s door and ducked into her seat behind the wheel.
“You mean you’d leave me in charge of your place?” he demanded, as he slid in beside her. “After what you’ve just seen and heard in there?” - with a jerk of his head towards the house.
“What has that to do with it?”
“It was enough to put Diane off, and she’s no one special compared with you. That old girl at the Hall who collects sewing stuff would never ask her to a dinner party.”
“Mrs. Wingfield? I expect she would if Diane happened to be a fellow collector. When people share an enthusiasm it overcomes any other barriers between them.”
He turned to her. “Does it, Imelda? Do you really believe that?”
There was a note in his voice which made her say hurriedly, “You wouldn’t be tied to the shop all the time, because I’m sure Mrs. Walsham would be willing to mind it every morning.”
Sam gave a deprecatory snort. “I wouldn’t need her help. I can’t stick her. She never stops nattering.”
“Only because she has no one to talk to at home now. I can’t not ask her, Sam. She would be hurt. But I would make it quite clear that you had the final responsibility because you’re also in the trade.”
“Why do you have to go away? Has your mother been taken queer?” he asked.
The Norfolk turn of speech no longer sounded strange to her. “No, as it happens it’s old Mrs. Wingfield who needs me. She’s on holiday in Spain with the grandchildren. Her daughter, who was with them, has had to come back to England to deal with an emergency, and Mrs. Wingfield is getting on in years to cope with three children single-handed.”
Sam’s response to this explanation was to stare at his knees in brooding silence for some moments. At length, he said, “Okay, I’ll look after the business for you.”
“Oh, Sam, I am grateful. I don’t-”
She broke off with a startled gasp as he put his arms round her and kissed her.
It was a shock; yet not a shock. She had been expecting it to happen for some time, but hoping that it would not. Now that it had, the best she could do was to submit without protest and hope that her lack of response would make Sam understand that she felt only friendship towards him.
“Oh ... hell!” He let her go and sank back in his seat, with a sort of despairing groan. His exclamation was obviously a substitute for a stronger expletive. He had always been touchingly careful never to swear when he was with her.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” she said quietly. “I like you so much, but ...” She left the sentence unfinished.
“But you don’t fancy him as your father-in-law,” he muttered with savage bitterness, his face turned towards his home.
“It has nothing to do with your family. Have you forgotten that my great-aunt was shunned for living in squalor, and thought to be soft in the head?”
“Being crazy is better than being stupid. Television and bingo are the only things which interest them. They don’t want to know about anything else.”
“Must you live with them? Couldn’t you find a place of your own?”
“Maybe I’ll do that.” He shrugged, and said in a brisker tone, “When are you leaving? When d’you want me to take over?”
“Well, perhaps, in the circumstances, you may not wish?...”
“Don’t be daft!”
“If I could, I should like to leave at once. Tomorrow morning.”
“Okay. Leave your keys with Bessie Medlar and don’t worry about a thing. ’Night.”
Before she had time to reply he had sprung out of the car and left her.
It was with a troubled mind that Imelda drove to the other side of the village to see her former landlady. As she had anticipated, Mrs. Walsham was willing to help, but would have preferred to mind the shop single-handed.
“Yes, but I shouldn’t be at ease, leaving you at the mercy of any objectionable characters who might turn up. Who knows? Someone might try to sell you something which was hot. Sam is more likely to recognise a shady seller or a shoplifter.”
“Oh, yes, I don’t doubt that,” replied Mrs. Walsham, with a meaningfu
l sniff.
At which Imelda flared up and told her that the fact that she still disapproved of Sam was evidence of her poor judgment of character.
“He has proved what a good sort he is. I would trust him in any situation. Without his help, I doubt if Victoriana would even be open yet. So if you can’t bring yourself to like him as much as I do, perhaps it would be best for him to manage the business single-handed,” she ended hotly.
As soon as the hasty words were uttered, she regretted speaking so forcefully to someone of Mrs. Walsham’s age and temperament.
Unexpectedly, the older woman did not take offence at Imelda’s outburst. As she was seeing her to the door, she said, “You haven’t an understanding with Sam, have you, dear?”
“No, there’s nothing like that between us.”
I almost wish there were, thought Imelda, as she climbed into the car and automatically clipped on the straps of the seat belt. Yet even if she loved Sam, their relationship would not be without some complications. Probably he would prefer to found his own business, even though it might be more rational to apply his energies to the one she had launched.
She had just finished putting the car away when from within the house she heard the telephone ringing. Quickly, she unlocked the door and hurried to lift the receiver before whoever was calling rang off.
“Have I dragged you out of a bath?” Charles asked, after she had given her number.
“No, no, it’s all right. Could you hold on for a minute, please?”
She put the receiver carefully on the table, and went to close and bolt the back door which, in her haste, she had left open. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said when she returned to the telephone.
“On the contrary it’s I who should apologise for disturbing you so late.” His voice, always attractive, sounded even more so by telephone. “I wanted to let you know that I’ve fixed up the flight to Menorca tomorrow and I’ve also arranged for you to fly from Norwich to Gatwick. A man I know runs an air-taxi service for businessmen. By a fortunate chance he’s taking a couple of North Sea oil rig executives to Gatwick tomorrow morning and there’s room for you. It will be much quicker and less tiring than going by road. Instead of setting out early you needn’t leave home until ten-thirty.”