Mennyms Alone

by Sylvia Waugh

  “. . . We have been requested by Mrs Jennifer Gladstone to inspect the birth certificates of the signatories to the declaration of residence that you send to us on the first of October each year. As you may remember, Mrs Gladstone has an interest in Number 5 Brocklehurst Grove. It may seem to you an unusual request, but if it is possible to comply we would advise you to do so. A refusal might lead to further action on Mrs Gladstone’s part and an effort to contest the will. This, we hasten to add, has not been mentioned. But it has always been a possibility, as with any will. We believe that it would be in the interest of all parties if the birth certificates could be produced . . .”

  It was a very polite letter, topped and tailed with pleasantness. But it angered Sir Magnus, and it worried him. It worried him so much that he did not even take affront at being passed over for his son.

  “They’ve got a confounded nerve!” he said. “How dare they ask for my birth certificate! Do they suspect me of some felony? A lot of sugary words and when all comes to all, they want to know how old I am, they want to find out if I’m still in the land of the living.”

  It was late evening. Tulip, Vinetta and Soobie were gathered round Magnus’s bed, all considering what the letter might portend. Joshua had gone gratefully to work. Being nightwatchman at Sydenham’s warehouse might not be a very stimulating job, but it had its merits. It was so unsociable that no human being ever threatened his secrecy. And it was much more peaceful than staying at home. He could sit there in his little office, ‘smoking’ his pipe and ‘drinking’ cocoa from his Port Vale mug, whilst the others made whatever decisions they might want to make about the letter addressed to him.

  Soobie was present because his grandfather had particularly asked him to be there. Since the premonition, Magnus had become increasingly dependent upon Soobie’s view of things, regarding him as a sort of litmus-test of reality in the world of pretends.

  Tulip looked at the letter yet again, but no amount of looking would change the words on the stiff piece of paper with its flourishing embossed letterhead. Very official!

  “It doesn’t matter how impertinent you think this letter is, Magnus,” said Tulip, “we’d need some sort of felony to produce a birth certificate for you. You have never had one.”

  “And even if we were capable of fabricating one,” said Soobie, “it could lead to all sorts of other complications. We need time to think about it – months, not days.”

  Magnus looked hopefully at Soobie.

  “So what shall we do about answering this letter?” he said. “They’ve even sent a stamped addressed envelope for our reply. They clearly mean business.”

  It was not Soobie who answered him but Tulip.

  “You must write a firm but polite reply,” she said. Her gold-rimmed little glasses slipped down her nose and she looked at Magnus over the top of them. “Remind them that the will gives nobody any legal right to ascertain your age, and point out that the declaration of residence was signed just three weeks ago. Say that you will consider the request further when next year’s declaration is due for signature.”

  Soobie looked satisfied.

  “That gives us best part of a year,” he said. “We should surely be able to find a way round the problem before then.”

  Through his mind went the possibility of searching old drawers and boxes for a real birth certificate left by the Penshaw family, perhaps even Kate’s own. Then there would be the business of forging copies with new details to fit Sir Magnus and Joshua, and of deciding on plausible dates of birth. Not the work of a day, or even a week. But given nearly a year, it might just be possible.

  “What if they don’t accept that answer?” said Vinetta, ever anxious. “What if they write again?”

  “I don’t think they will,” said Soobie. “The law, as everyone knows, is happy to move slowly. But, just in case, I suppose we could add a pretend. We could say that the birth certificates would not be readily available. We could explain that the Mennyms came originally from Denmark and that the certificates would have to be obtained from the authorities in Copenhagen.”

  It was quite a good pretend, a nice piece of embroidery. But Soobie suddenly thought of Appleby, weaving tangled webs. He was not happy with deception, even when it could make a useful contribution. Necessity is a dreadful taskmaster.

  Sir Magnus had stopped listening. He would no doubt have approved the subterfuge, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The voices of the others had become blurred. A different voice was speaking inside his head.

  Soobie noticed the unusual, vacant expression on his grandfather’s face. The old man’s jet black eyes had silvered over. His jaw had dropped leaving a dark circle beneath his white moustache, a toothless doll’s mouth made from velvet.

  “Grandfather,” said Soobie loudly and sharply. “Do you agree?”

  “Agree to what?” said Magnus in confusion as Soobie’s voice called him to attention. “Agree to what?”

  Patiently, Soobie explained everything again, even giving some idea of how the problem of birth certificates could be handled. Tulip was annoyed with her husband for appearing so stupid, and Vinetta was concerned. It was so unlike Magnus to lose the thread of the conversation.

  Magnus, however, listened attentively now and gave his approval to the projected letter.

  “You can write it, Tulip,” he said. “Let Joshua sign it. Now I would like a word with Soobie. Alone.”

  Tulip pursed her lips and gave Soobie a disapproving look. What were they up to?

  “Your grandfather needs his sleep,” she said. “Don’t stay here too long.”

  She looked at Magnus and added, “And don’t you go filling his head with odd ideas. He has plenty of his own already.”

  Soobie and his grandfather were left alone once again.

  “Come closer,” said Magnus. “Sit in your grandmother’s chair.”

  Soobie was puzzled but came forward obediently. Tulip’s was a deep armchair on smooth-running castors. He pulled it forward close to the bed.

  “Now,” said Magnus, leaning towards him. “Listen to me.”

  “Yes?” said Soobie.

  “There will be no birth certificates,” he said vehemently. “There will be no forgeries. I know now that we have just one more year. That will give us ample time for all we need to do.”

  Soobie was silent.

  “You know what I mean, don’t you?” said Magnus, grasping his grandson’s hand.

  “I think so,” said Soobie slowly.

  “There has been a further sign, a speaking to my spirit,” said Magnus, with a cautious look over Soobie’s shoulder at the bedroom door. “October the first, next year. That is the day. To know the hour would be too much to expect. But for now, we must take our time. We must consider all that will need to be done.”

  Soobie shuddered, suddenly aware of the possibility that Magnus might not be self-deluded. That spell of vagueness might not have been senility. In which case . . .?

  “You will have to tell the others,” said Soobie. “It is not something we can keep to ourselves. Granny Tulip and Mother and Father should be told straightaway.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Telling Tulip

  NEXT MORNING, WHEN Tulip came in to open the curtains, Magnus said firmly, “Sit down, Tulip. I want to talk to you.”

  Telling Soobie had been no problem because Soobie was willing to listen. Telling Tulip would be a different matter. She had already rejected his first premonition.

  Typically, she looked at the clock on the wall before taking her place in the armchair by the bed. She knew that Magnus was a scholar of some considerable reputation. His articles on the English Civil War had appeared in all sorts of journals. But she had more to concern her than the everlasting Battle of Edgehill. Magnus could be very garrulous.

  “It won’t have to take long,” she said. “I have a lot to do. It is the third Thursday, you know.”

  The third Thursday of every month was Tulip’s regular day for attending
to all the household bills. The ritual had begun in the days when they had paid rent to live at 5 Brocklehurst Grove. Their landlord, Chesney Loftus, lived in Australia. When he died he left the house to the Mennyms, not as an outright bequest but for ‘however long Sir Magnus and/or his son Joshua Mennym should continue to reside in the said property’. Tulip saw no reason for this new arrangement to change her routine. There was one less bill, that was all. It was a fairly substantial bill but certainly not the only one the Mennyms had to pay. Gas, electric, telephone, taxes, were all punctually paid and carefully recorded.

  “It will take as long as it takes,” said Magnus cryptically. He adjusted the pillows behind him to make himself more comfortable.

  “Meaning?” said his wife warily.

  “I have to make you understand what happened in this room last night,” said Magnus. “You thought I’d dozed off, didn’t you?”

  Tulip was irritated. She had dismissed Magnus’s lapse and was prepared to forget it. It seemed that Magnus was not. She was beginning to wish she had brought her knitting!

  “Well, I didn’t,” said Magnus. “I went into some sort of trance, and whilst I was in that state I had another premonition, a clearer warning. On the first of October next year, the very day the signing is due, the spirit will leave us and we shall all die.”

  Tulip gave him a look of scorn.

  “I have never heard such nonsense,” she said. “You must have dreamt it! If you aren’t careful you’ll turn senile. Then what would happen to the Battle of Edgehill? Pull yourself together, Magnus. Don’t be so foolish.”

  “I am the head of this household,” said Magnus. He kept his tone moderate though he felt deeply insulted. “If I say I had a premonition, then I had a premonition.”

  Tulip looked impatient. She got up from the armchair and prepared to leave the room.

  “I’m going now, before I say something I’ll regret,” she said. “I have neither the time nor the inclination to listen to fantasies.”

  She turned her back on him and walked towards the door.

  Magnus raised his voice and called after her, “We are going to die, Tulip. We are all going to die. The day has been named. We must accept it, because we have no choice. And we must prepare, because that is our duty.”

  Tulip turned again, faltering. There was something so chilling in her husband’s words. Was he going mad? Or mystical? Either possibility was unnerving. She sat down.

  “Are you quite, quite sure you are not just imagining it? It seems a strange coincidence that the chosen day should just happen to be the day of the signing. That is how dreams work,” she said, but in a much gentler voice.

  “I know all that,” said Magnus, putting out one hand to cover hers. “I can’t help the coincidence. I can’t explain it. But, I do assure you, I did have another premonition, a stronger one even than the first. It was the same as when Vinetta closed the attic door. Exactly the same. Why can’t you believe me?”

  He paused before adding in a petulant voice, “You believed Vinetta.”

  Tulip said nothing for a moment. Then she stood up again.

  “I need to think,” she said. “I’ll go to the breakfast-room and do the accounts. It may become clearer to me as I work. Believing Vinetta was different. There was more evidence.”

  Magnus saw how Tulip was struggling with the ideas he had presented to her. She would need time, goodness knows how much time she would need. She was such a neat, precise little woman with her white hair never out of place, her lace collars always just so and her blue-checked apron never other than stiff and clean. To accept something as fantastic as contact with the spirit of Kate would be hard for someone so conventional. She had no interest in contemplation. She did the accounts, managed all the family’s money, and still found time to knit fashionwear to sell to Harrods. She was even talking about exporting her knitwear to America. Of all the Mennyms, she was the most earthbound.

  Who was the least? Surprisingly, it was Joshua.

  Magnus had less trouble in making Vinetta believe what had happened. She knew more about Kate than any of the others did. She had once known what it was like to be Kate. “She was there inside my head,” said Magnus to Vinetta. “That is the only way I can describe it. It should have been terrifying, but because I was so much at one with her I could feel no fear.”

  It was this account of his experience that made Vinetta give greater credence to his words than any premonition on its own would have done. And Vinetta in turn tried to convince Joshua.

  “I suppose there could be some truth in it,” said Joshua, sucking on his pipe. “I wouldn’t like to say. It seems to me, though, that we’re in deep enough trouble over the birth certificate business without adding to our worries.”

  They were sitting together at the kitchen table.

  “Would dying worry you?” said Vinetta.

  “No,” said Joshua.

  “Does it not make you sad to think of leaving this life behind?” She asked the question more for her own sake than his.

  “No,” said Joshua tersely. Then he relented and added, “I have worked my passage. When the voyage is over I shall not be sorry to go ashore, whenever and wherever that may be.”

  “But regrets?” said Vinetta. It was not that she wanted to cling to life, but she did love her family and she cared desperately what happened to them.

  “No regrets,” said Joshua. “Regrets are pointless. I can’t know the future and I can’t change the past. It would be good to go on watching the world. But then, who is to say that we won’t?”

  Vinetta shivered.

  “That would not be my idea of heaven,” she said. “Just to watch and be able to do nothing? That could be terrible.”

  “Kate can’t do this to us,” said Hortensia to Vinetta as they sat in the lounge on the last day of October. Outside the rain was falling on dead leaves.

  Hortensia accepted Sir Magnus’s premonitions uncritically as terrifyingly, distressingly true. She took very seriously the threat of an end to living, to caring for Googles, to painting pictures and enjoying the comfort of her lovely room. It was heartbreaking. For most of her existence she had lived in the hall cupboard. She had not had forty-six years of this life, only five. That, she thought bitterly, was not long enough.

  “If Kate’s spirit leaves us,” said Vinetta, “there will be reasons. It is not our place to question her decision. We are lucky to have lived so long.”

  Vinetta knew that there were other ways in which her family were lucky. Their death would be just a matter of having the power switched off, of their spirit departing into some mysterious hereafter. Illness they would not have to face. They could ‘cease upon the midnight with no pain’, or at whatever hour Kate Penshaw should choose for her departure. The door in the attic would open and life in the house would end. Exactly how that would happen she didn’t know; she didn’t need to know.

  By the beginning of November, all of the grown-ups, except Pilbeam, had had time to consider in some depth the premonitions. What they believed varied from one to another, and from day to day. Even Sir Magnus sometimes had doubts. In time, the first impact became blunted. It was an idea, it might come to something, but it might equally well fade away.

  At Soobie’s insistence, Pilbeam was not told. He did not want his twin to be troubled with thoughts of mortality. She, like Miss Quigley, had not had the same share of life as the rest of the family. For forty years she had lain unfinished in a trunk in the attic. Soobie had found her there. Vinetta had stitched her together and helped to bring her to life. Her living was a comparatively recent event. And in that short time she had both loved and lost. First Albert, then Appleby. It would not be fair to burden her unnecessarily with fear.

  And if Sir Magnus were mistaken, if these premonitions were simply aberrations, then she would never need to know.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jennifer

  THE LETTER FROM Cromarty, Varley and Thynne was couched in the most friendly ter
ms. Their clerk was quite expert at sparing people’s feelings. But Jennifer knew how to read between the lines.

  She read it twice over, uninterrupted. Tom had gone off to work before the post arrived. Ian, the seventeen-year-old, had been stacking shelves in the supermarket for the past two hours. The younger children, Keith and Anna, were at school.

  Only Robert, the eldest son, was still at home. He was studying for a physics degree at the local university. He came downstairs just after Jennifer had finished her second reading.

  “You don’t look too happy, Mum,” he said. He’d followed her into the kitchen and perched himself on a stool. She filled the kettle for coffee.

  “I’m annoyed,” she said. “I’m vexed with myself mainly. Your sister . . .”

  “Lorna again!” said Robert, knowing instantly which sister his mother meant. “What has she been doing this time?”

  “That’s not fair,” said Jennifer, jumping to her daughter’s defence. “She means well. She’s just inclined to be bossy, and sometimes she bamboozles me into doing things I don’t really want to do. She wrote to that solicitor and got me to sign the letter. Now I wish I hadn’t.”

  “Oh,” said Robert, realising what she meant, “the one about the birth certificates? Yes, I know all about that. I really didn’t see much harm in it.”

  “Well, I did,” said his mother. “And I still do. More so than ever.”

  She handed Robert the solicitor’s letter.

  “I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” he said when he had read it. “It’s a purely factual letter. The Mennyms have offered to supply birth certificates next year. They would find it difficult to obtain them straightaway because they’ll need to send to Denmark for them. I don’t know why that should upset you. The solicitor even says that he understands your concern.”