Mennyms Alone

by Sylvia Waugh

  Lorna looked horrified. No longer was she embarrassed. She stood up and said, “These dolls are Kate’s People. They need someone to care for them, to cherish them, to love them. If you saw them, you would know that they have been loved and cherished for years and years. I couldn’t possibly agree to those conditions, even if I wanted to.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Consulting Mr Dobb

  LORNA SAT ON the bed in Poopie’s room and held the Action Man in her hands. It was Hector, Poopie’s old favourite, dressed in combat suit and bearing scars of battle on his rugged face. The door of the largest toy cupboard was wide open. Inside, neatly arranged on the shelves, just as Poopie had left them, were boxes of soldiers and Lego bricks and all sorts of equipment calculated to make a boy’s life enjoyable. On the cupboard floor was a ship made out of Lego bricks, so detailed that the child who made it must have had enormous patience and tremendous skill.

  Lorna had opened the cupboard door in her random prowling round the house. This was their second visit. The problem of the dolls was nowhere nearer being solved, but Lorna had decided that they should look at the other things in the house and consider what should be done with them.

  The toy cupboard struck a chord that nothing else in the house had touched. A little boy had lived in this room and all of his treasures were stashed away there. Why had they been left behind? Was the child dead? His toys neatly tidied away by parents too sad to look at them again? And to the young mother, the thought of a child dying was heartbreaking. She was near to tears.

  “Is something wrong?” said Albert, coming into the room.

  Lorna looked up at him with a woebegone face.

  “I think there is,” she said. “I just opened that cupboard – and look what’s in it. A boy’s toys – soldier dolls, building bricks, all sorts of things.”

  Albert sat on the bed beside her. He took the toy soldier from her and looked at it, musing.

  “It does seem strange,” he said. “I was just coming to tell you about my find. All of the cupboards and wardrobes in this house seem to be full. The Mennyms certainly didn’t pack for their journey.”

  Albert’s words set Lorna thinking. Sorrow changed to foreboding. Where were the Mennyms? What could have happened to them? She looked at Albert, waiting for him to share her suspicions.

  “Nobody,” she said slowly, “absolutely nobody, goes away and leaves all of their personal possessions behind them. We’ll have to do something about it. I think we should inform the police.”

  Albert thought of Jennifer, and of how nervous his mother-in-law was about anything suspicious or eerie.

  “Your mother will be upset,” he said. “I was hoping we would be able to clear everything out without her knowing.”

  “She needn’t know,” said Lorna. “We won’t tell her.”

  Albert looked at Lorna incredulously.

  “Impossible,” he said. “Think of it logically. If there is any real need to call in the police, goodness knows what secrets this house might be hiding. We would have to keep your mother informed. We couldn’t just leave her in the dark.”

  Lorna sighed.

  “Well, what do you think we should do then?” she said.

  Albert thought hard before answering.

  “I think we should go to the offices of Rothwell and Ramshaw and have a long chat with their Mr Dobb. He should be able to shed some light on all this if anybody can.”

  Albert and Lorna were shown into the senior clerk’s office, a room lacking in privacy because small windows stretching the length of one wall looked out onto the reception area.

  “Do sit down, Mr Pond, Mrs Pond,” said Mr Dobb, raising himself almost to standing position before collapsing again into his leather chair. He was very fat, and looked well past the normal age of retirement.

  “Now,” he said, “how can I help you?”

  Albert let Lorna do the talking. It saved the two of them talking at once! She explained the problem whilst Mr Dobb nodded and listened.

  “So,” she finished, “what we are really concerned about is whether there could have been any sort of foul play.”

  Mr Dobb looked down at the Mennym file, more particularly, he looked at the third page of Tulip’s closely written letter.

  “Well, Mrs Pond,” he began, “I think I will be able to give you some reassurance on that point. It is clear from the Mennyms’ letter that they decided, as a family, to leave everything behind them. It was, I fancy, a symbolic gesture. There is, you must surely think, something quite noble about it. They go out in the clothes they stand up in. They close the door behind them and they venture forth to start a new life.”

  “Is that what it says there?” said Lorna, leaning forward and trying to see what was written on the sheet of paper in Mr Dobb’s hand.

  Mr Dobb placed the paper firmly in the file.

  “My client’s instructions are confidential, Mrs Pond,” he said severely. “I cannot possibly divulge all their business. You may know whatever you need to know. And I tell you now that there is nothing in the least bit shady about the property the Mennyms left in Brocklehurst Grove. You may keep anything you wish. You may sell anything that is of no use to you. It is an unusual arrangement, I grant you, but it is perfectly legal. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

  Lorna looked furious. Albert put one hand out to restrain her.

  “I know now how my mother felt,” she said, thrusting Albert’s hand away. “I know why she was so cross with the Mennyms. Noble? Is it noble to leave so many bits and pieces to be gathered up by perfect strangers? We hardly know where to start.”

  Mr Dobb puffed out a sigh. Why do people have to make everything so complicated?

  “There are all sorts of ways of emptying a house,” he said. “If it is a real trouble to you, I can make arrangements for the premises to be cleared. It will be extra work for me, but that will be chargeable to the Mennym account.”

  “The Mennym account?” said Albert.

  “Yes,” said Mr Dobb turning thankfully towards him. Men, Mr Dobb thought, are so much more reasonable than women. “Everything to do with the departure of the Mennyms is to be wound up by this firm. They have made ingenious arrangements to pay all expenses incurred, including, I may say, the cost of this interview. You will not be sent a bill. Perhaps you and your wife should talk it over, Mr Pond, and then you can let me know what you wish us to do.”

  Lorna clenched her fists. She stood up abruptly.

  “We’ll be going now,” she said. “We know all we need to know. We shall not be troubling you again.”

  “No trouble, Mrs Pond, no trouble at all,” said Mr Dobb, half-rising.

  “We’ll just have to accept what we’ve been told,” said Albert. “So we find a home for the dolls and we look for a dealer to take everything else off our hands.”

  “We’ll be robbed, if we aren’t careful,” said Lorna. “There must be some way of getting an honest valuation and selling things properly.”

  Albert and Lorna were sitting in the little living-room at Calder Park. Matthew was asleep in his cot upstairs. It was the day after their encounter with Mr Dobb. They had talked and talked about what to do and how and when.

  “What happened when you sold Comus House?” asked Lorna.

  “An agent sold the house,” he said, “and I had someone come from London to value the contents.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Lorna eagerly. “That is what we should do.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Albert. “It was a waste of time and effort. To be perfectly honest, it was embarrassing. People think because things are old they are worth a lot. I suppose they might be sometimes. But more often than not they are just nineteenth century junk. Five hundred years from now they might be interesting as artefacts.”

  “Even so . . .” began Lorna.

  “Even so,” said Albert, “it is not what your mother wants. We are not looking to make a profit. Our job is simply to empty the house rea
dy for your family to move in. And in case you haven’t noticed, most of the furniture there is not even all that old.”

  “So where do we start?” said Lorna.

  “We start by having a proper look at everything in the house and making some sort of list so that we can give anyone interested an idea of what they will be coming to see.”

  “What about the dolls?” said Lorna.

  Albert gave her a helpless look.

  “I suppose,” he said, “we’re just stuck waiting for inspiration.”

  CHAPTER 25

  A Sunday Survey

  ON SUNDAY MORNING after church, the Ponds resolved to make another assault on the Mennym mountain. They drove to Rimstead to leave Matthew with his grandparents.

  “We’ll make a proper inventory this time,” said Lorna. “It’s about time we got organised. We’ll go through each room in turn and list the contents under four headings – large furniture, small furniture, clothing, and miscellaneous. The miscellaneous will include pictures, ornaments and any other items not included in the other lists.”

  Lorna the librarian was about to be in her element. She had brought two clipboards, one blue, one red, and several pens also in a variety of colours.

  When they arrived at Elmtree Road, they were asked to stay for lunch – a feast which usually occurred late afternoon – but Lorna was adamant about their need to go soon and get on with the work. Jennifer was in the kitchen. Tom said, “Well, at least sit down and have a cup of tea. How are things going?”

  He gave a cautious look towards the door. The do-not-mention-it-in-front-of-me dictum still held good. Jennifer often portrayed herself as being a weakling crushed by the strength of all her family, but when she was stubborn, she was stubborn! The occasions were rare, but all the more respected for that.

  “Things aren’t going at all,” said Albert.

  “That’s not exactly true,” said Lorna. “Gran came and took away some of the things she fancied. It took two trips to and from her house.”

  Tom looked amused.

  “What did she take, for goodness’ sake?”

  “A couple of hideous basket chairs with high backs, a lot of small ornaments, and the biggest picture in the house. You might have noticed it. It was hanging above the fireplace in the sitting-room,” said Lorna.

  “I rather liked that picture,” said Albert. “It reminded me of the view from Comus House.”

  “And that’s all you’ve managed to get rid of?” said Tom.

  “That’s all so far,” said Lorna. “But we are going there today to make a full inventory of the contents, and we are going to be really businesslike about disposing of them.”

  “What about the dolls?” said Tom.

  “I have a few other museums I mean to try – folk museums, that sort of thing. Heatherton Hall was a mistake, but no one can say I don’t learn.”

  Albert and Lorna reached Number 5 Brocklehurst Grove shortly after two o’clock. They went in the door that was by now familiar, made their way to the kitchen, and sat down at the table, just as Joshua and Vinetta had so often done.

  “Now,” said Lorna, “you must take the blue clipboard and list all of the small furniture and the clothing. I’ll do the large furniture and the miscellaneous. Small furniture is anything that can normally be moved from place to place by one person. So you count the chairs and small tables etc. Do a fresh sheet for each room. I’ll start on the ground floor and work my way up. You can start on the top floor and work your way down. That will make it less confusing.”

  Albert took the blue clipboard from his wife’s hands, smiled slightly, and felt confused.

  “Shall we have a cup of tea before we start?” he said.

  The brown teapot was still there and all the cups and saucers. Gas and electricity had already been signed over to the Gladstones. Lorna herself had brought emergency rations. But . . .

  “No,” she said. “We must get started straightaway. I don’t want to waste any more time. Do you realise, it’s nearly the end of January? We’ve spent three weeks getting nowhere.”

  “That’s not what you said to your father,” said Albert.

  “I was trying to be reassuring,” said Lorna, looking dignified. “Dad has enough to worry about – getting Elmtree Road ready for selling.”

  So they began the task of listing everything. Albert did not question why everything needed to be listed so precisely, though it was not at all what he had had in mind when he mentioned ‘some sort of list’. But for Lorna, making lists was second nature, her way of dealing with anything and everything.

  Suddenly, Albert called from the top floor.

  “Come here a minute, Lorna. You must see this,” he said.

  Lorna, clipboard under her arm, went to the foot of the stairs.

  “That’s not the way we do it,” she shouted up the stairs. “If you ask me to come and see things every few minutes we’ll never get anywhere. List first, talk later.”

  “Come up here,” said Albert emphatically. “I want you to see this now.”

  Lorna sighed and ran up the stairs.

  “Well?” she said, following Albert into the big front bedroom, “what’s so urgent?”

  Albert took her to the wardrobe.

  “What do you think of that?”

  He pointed to the uniform, Sir Magnus Mennym’s brilliant white naval uniform with its gold braid and epaulettes.

  “Dazzling?” said Albert as he held one sleeve out for her closer inspection.

  Lorna looked at the uniform more closely.

  “It’s not for real,” she said. “It can’t be. He’d have to be Admiral of the Fleet to wear something like that.”

  A look at all the other things in that wardrobe confirmed a suspicion that these things were fancy dress. A Noel Coward smoking-jacket. A dressing-gown in rich brocade with an ermine collar. Albert took it from its hanger and held it up for Lorna to see.

  “The Tsar of Russia,” he said as he draped it round his own shoulders.

  “At the very least,” said Lorna with a giggle. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”

  The clipboards were temporarily forgotten, but it was not time wasted. Seeing these fantastic clothes jogged Albert’s memory. They reminded him of a shop down by the river, a very odd and very special shop.

  “I think I know where to get rid of these,” he said. “Waggons!”

  “Waggons?”

  “It’s a sort of antique shop, down on North Shore Road. I used to pass it years ago when my father took me to the office on the quayside. It was a jumble of all sorts, as I remember, but it specialised in theatrical costumes.”

  “It might not be there any more,” Lorna pointed out.

  “It might not,” said Albert, “but it’s the next place to try.”

  “Your turn?” said Lorna with a smile.

  “My turn,” said Albert. “I’ll go down there one day next week.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Lesser Dolls

  THE SHOP WAS still there. And, what is more, it was exactly as Albert remembered it.

  It was Saturday morning and he had just left his car at the Castledean Car Centre for servicing. It was the first chance he’d had to look for the shop on North Shore Road. He walked alone down the long, curving street that led to the river. Either side were tall, stately buildings that now housed a multitude of offices. Across the bottom of this street was a huge, high-arched railway viaduct. And after that point came a jumbled mixture of buildings with dates that differed by as much as two hundred years, perhaps more. Shabby Victorian tenements rubbed shoulders with buildings that were standing when Charles the First was king. Albert made his way down and down till he came to where the North Shore Road skirted the river.

  He turned right, walked a few yards and arrived at the shop he was seeking even sooner than he expected. It was double-fronted with old style windows that did not go right to the ground. The building above it was three storeys high. The brickwork was sooty and the paint
work was drab. A sign across the shop front read L & P WAGGONS.

  The sign had once been yellow edged with black, but now both colours were nearer to grey. The shop windows, however, were very clean and the displays inside them were orderly. In the window to the left there were well-polished tables and hat-stands and small chests of drawers. In the right-hand window there was a rail curving backwards in a half-moon shape and full of all sorts of clothing on hangers. In the centre space was a theatrical chest with the lid thrown open and a couple of bright ball gowns artistically spilling out.

  What made this shop memorably different from any other second-hand dealer was not the wares on display. It was the dolls.

  At the far left-hand side of the left-hand window, the full-sized figure of a lady was seated at an old-fashioned treadle sewing machine. Her sister was at the far right-hand side of the right-hand window seated at a desk with her spindly fingers resting on the keys of an ancient typewriter. To mistake the two for real people one would, at the very least, have to be on a boat in the middle of the river. They were dressed as Victorian ladies in dark high-necked dresses trimmed with cream lace. On their heads were little cream lace caps surmounting wooden, yes wooden, buns. They were wooden betty dolls! Huge wooden betty dolls with brown wood faces and skeletal wooden hands. Their cheeks were painted bright red, their lips cupid-bowed, and their eyes, flat as fried eggs, had long black lashes sketched in thick lacquer above and below. They had fascinated Albert when he’d seen them years ago. And there they still were.

  The shop door had a polished brass sneck with a well-thumbed lip. It rattled as Albert pressed it down and as the door opened a cracked bell over the entrance gave out a jarring sound. The inside of the shop was as neat as the window. Every old and not-so-old piece of furniture was free from dust. There was no shop counter, but the owner was seated at an octagonal table pushed up against the left side wall. On the table were a number of filing cases, one of which had its drawer open. The owner looked up from her work when Albert came in.