by Pip Granger
‘That sounds most pleasant, Dodie dear,’ Mr Herbert said. ‘I must say that the establishment’s name adds to its allure. I wonder if they have to put up with a lot of cannibal jokes? I expect they do, poor things.’
I must have decided that Great-aunt Dodie was all right because before anyone could stop me I was demanding to know what ‘plan B’ was.
Auntie Maggie looked embarrassed, although I could tell that she and everyone else wanted to know. ‘Shoosh, Rosie, don’t be so rude. It’s none of our business what plan B is.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs Featherby. Of course the girl’s curious. Archie and I had three possible plans, Rosa. Plan A was to come and visit you all, stay a polite interval and then motor back to Bath and my home in time for supper. Plan B was to come and visit you, find an hotel, and then, if you’re game, see you all again tomorrow. Plan C is in case you’re busy tomorrow and we have to amuse ourselves by pootling about a bit before returning to Bath.’
Uncle Sid was adamant. ‘This is a boarding house, Miss Loveday-Smythe. We’ve got plenty of room, if you don’t mind the smell of paint. It’s not as bad as it was, although I could just be getting used to it.’
Everyone began talking at once, except me and Mr Herbert. I was too faint with hunger to argue the toss and kept tugging at Auntie Maggie’s dress until I got her attention.
‘Yes, love. How about we all talk it over while we’re wrapping our laughing gear around some cod and chips? Me and Rosie here are about to fade away from lack of grub.’
It didn’t take long to walk to Coffin’s and get all nine of us seated. To my relief, the table was soon groaning under the weight of huge plates of fish and chips, teetering piles of bread and butter and steaming cups of tea.
Between mouthfuls, it was decided that once we’d eaten we’d all return to Dunroamin for what Madame Zelda called ‘a good old chin-wag and piss-up’. There was general agreement to this plan.
‘Plan D,’ I yelled through a mouthful of chips and everyone laughed, I don’t know why.
Dunroamin was the new name that Uncle Sid and Auntie Flo had chosen to go with the new paint, curtains and lino at the boarding house. Uncle Sid said it might bring them luck and enough business so that he could stop travelling in corsets and settle down with his Flo. I had been trying to work out what ‘travelling in corsets’ meant for some time. I thought it meant that Uncle Sid was like Sugar Plum Flaherty who lived round the corner from us. Sugar liked to dress up like a lady and walked around in high heels, stockings, smart dresses, a blond wig and make-up. I was a bit confused, though, because Uncle Sid never looked like Sugar. I’d never seen him in a dress even, let alone a corset. In the end I asked Paulette what ‘travelling in corsets’ meant.
‘Bless you, sweetie,’ Paulette answered. ‘Your uncle Sid doesn’t wear dresses or corsets. He sells corsets to shops, that’s what it means. He travels about in his nice car, flogging corsets to shops who then flog ’em to ladies and sometimes to people like Sugar or Freddie the Frock, but mostly to ladies.’
Once the last crumbs had been demolished, we all traipsed back to Dunroamin via the boozer on the corner. Uncle Sid and Uncle Bert had insisted on paying for everyone’s fish dinners, saying it was their duty to feed their guests. This made Great-aunt Dodie and Mr Herbert very determined to lay in the drinks. There was a spirited discussion about this but Great-aunt Dodie stood her ground. We were despatched home to sort out some glasses and she and Mr Herbert disappeared into the off-sales bit of the pub. Ten minutes later they came staggering in with two wooden crates. One was filled with bottles of beer, lemonade and orange juice. The other had whisky, gin, port and several packets of Smith’s crisps. They didn’t have fancy flavours in those days, just plain with a little, dark blue twist of paper with the salt in it.
Our party was soon in full swing. Madame Zelda, a glass of gin in one hand and a small cheroot in the other, settled down happily with Mr Herbert and soon they were nattering away twenty to the dozen about books, the occult, Soho and the war. Paulette, Uncle Sid and Uncle Bert were at the piano, Paulette singing quietly with Uncle Bert accompanying her and Uncle Sid listening and sometimes joining in with the singing. I was sitting with Auntie Maggie, Auntie Flo and Great-aunt Dodie because the talk had got on to funny food and I was dying to know how you ate sheep’s eyes. I must have decided that I liked my great-aunt because before long I was happily ensconced on her lap.
When there was a brief gap in the conversation, I whipped my wrinkled thumb out of my mouth to ask about the sheep’s eyes. I was quite disappointed to hear that they were put into a stew whole. However, I cheered up when Great-aunt Dodie told us about the Bedouin custom of giving them to honoured guests because they were a delicacy. Of course, the next thing I asked was whether you swallowed them whole or cut ’em up. Auntie Flo told me I was a revolting little tyke but Great-aunt Dodie said it was a good question. She was just about to answer it when Mr Herbert, who’d had a few by then, demanded that she gave us a tune because Uncle Bert was taking a rest. Auntie Maggie suddenly noticed the time and said it was way past my bedtime and that was that. I was whisked off to bed and missed the rest.
I felt cheated because I knew it was highly likely that I never would find out about the sheep’s eyes. Personally, I think you’d have to cut ’em up, because they might get stuck in your throat otherwise.
22
The evening must have gone with a swing, because no one was up next morning when I padded downstairs in my nightie with the pink rosebuds on it. I tried to be quiet but I fell off the chair I’d climbed on to reach a cup for my milk. The crash woke Auntie Flo who tottered into the kitchen looking bleary. I babbled an apology for the broken cup but she was casual about it.
‘Don’t worry, petal, accidents happen. Want some breakfast? I expect your belly thinks your throat’s been cut. Egg on toast do you? The eggs come from Sid’s cousin who’s got a farm round Blagdon way. One egg or two? Boiled, poached, fried or scrambled?’
I wasn’t used to making this particular decision for myself. I usually had what everyone else had, so it took me a while to make up my mind. I plumped for two and scrambled. I liked the way Auntie Flo scrambled her eggs; she added some stuff that looked like grass but smelt a bit like onions. She called it chives and it grew in the back garden. She handed me the big black kitchen scissors and asked me to get some while she made some tea.
‘Me mouth feels like a wrestler’s jockstrap and I won’t feel better until I’ve had a cuppa or six,’ she said as she opened the door for me.
Auntie Flo and I spent a companionable hour, drinking our drinks – tea for her, milk for me – and tucking into scrambled eggs on toast. Well, I tucked in and she nibbled the odd dry crust because she said she felt a bit seedy.
I liked my auntie Flo. She’d lived with us for a bit before she married her Sid and moved away. In those days she’d been known to everyone as ‘Scarper Flo’ on account of being a bookies’ runner for a while. She’d become a runner after her Johnny had got himself blown to bits. She had to earn her living somehow and wanted to stay at home to help Granny look after Gramps, who’d had a stroke. There were no farms or munitions factories in Soho, so the choices were limited. In the end, Tic-Tac Mac offered her a job as a runner and she turned out to be really good at it.
Auntie Flo earned the ‘Scarper’ on account of her turn of speed when being pursued by the coppers. It was illegal, as Uncle Bert explained, to place a bet anywhere except on the race course, but what working man or woman could afford to go to the races every time they wanted a bet? It was daft and, as my auntie Flo pointed out, rich blokes could place a bet by sitting on their fat arses and getting a lackey to telephone their bets through. Or they went to proper gambling clubs where they could play cards and the doorman would place their bets for them. She said it just wasn’t fair because they had the time and the money to go to the races and the rest of us didn’t, and I believed her. Anyway, that’s why the people who took
bets from the punters were called runners – they had to be able to leg it when the need arose. Scarper Flo soon became a legend with other runners, bookies, punters and police alike and everyone was sad when she gave it up to marry her Sid. The local coppers reckoned that all the exercise she gave them kept them in mid-season form. No one ever managed to catch her, which must have been some kind of record in itself. Most runners expected to get caught now and then and kept a fund to pay their bribes or fines – mostly it was bribes because round our way the coppers saw it as a valuable addition to their wages.
Once we had breakfasted Auntie Flo decided it was best to try and get the others up. We chatted about my Great-aunt Dodie as we boiled the kettle for everyone’s morning tea. In fact she’d been the main topic of conversation all through our breakfast. We decided that we liked her; that she was very definitely a bit of all right, and that she was a welcome addition to our little tribe.
Auntie Flo told me how my great-aunt had kept everyone amused with her travel stories and how she and Mr Herbert had taught everyone to play a game called backgammon. They’d had to use a set of draughts, a bit of old sheet with the board drawn on it and some dice. She said she’d teach me later because it would be good practice for my sums. Then she loaded seven cups and saucers on a tray and headed upstairs with the teas. I followed behind so that I could knock on doors and help her deliver them. It came as a bit of a surprise to me to discover that Mr Herbert and my great-aunt were in the same room. Auntie Flo said not to worry about it as he had been servicing the old girl for years. I wasn’t sure what servicing meant but Auntie Flo said I didn’t really need to know. What I couldn’t understand, though, was how the pair of pink knickers came to be hanging from the light fitting in their room. Auntie Flo told me that I didn’t need to know that either, but she was laughing as she told me so I knew she wasn’t cross.
After we’d delivered tea to Great-aunt Dodie and Mr Herbert, we moved on to Madame Zelda and Paulette’s room, then Auntie Maggie and Uncle Bert’s and that left just one lonely cup on the tray for Uncle Sid. Once everyone was up, we sat around the long kitchen table discussing our plans for the day. I was all for going to visit the donkeys and Great-aunt Dodie said she’d like to come too. Mr Herbert wanted to look around for bookshops and the rest were happy to spend the morning recovering from the after-effects of the night before.
Great-aunt Dodie proved to be a mine of information about horses and donkeys. She took to Harry’s mob straight away and understood completely why Hazel was my favourite. She had a long technical conversation with Harry concerning the dietary requirements and habits of your average donkey. I noticed that Harry behaved very differently when he was speaking to my great-aunt. He had a sort of ‘cheeky chappie’ manner with the punters but with her he was quiet and serious. I think that was when I realized that she really wasn’t like the rest of us. Not only was she posh, which I’d already realized, but she had an air of authority that she and everyone else took for granted – a bit like the headmistress at school, only much, much more so. No wonder Afghan tribesmen legged it rather than face her down.
After we had communed with Hazel and co. for a bit we headed back to Dunroamin via the candyfloss place. Great-aunt Dodie took my auntie Maggie aside for a moment, there was a brief discussion and I heard Auntie Maggie say, ‘I don’t know, Dodie. Why don’t you ask her?’
I just had time to register that their relationship had moved on to a first-names basis when, to my utter astonishment, that imposing woman hunkered down so she was more or less on my level.
‘Rosa dear, how would you like to come for a spin in the car? I know someone not too far from here who keeps a farm with horses and I thought, as you love donkeys so much, you might like to meet them.’
I cast a hasty glance at Auntie Maggie to see what she thought of this plan. She smiled at me and nodded slightly, so I knew it was all right with her. So I nodded too, although I have to say I was a bit shy about going off with a woman I hardly knew.
I needn’t have worried as what followed was one of those days that linger in the memory for ever. It was a turning point in all sorts of ways as Great-aunt Dodie and I forged a bond that was to be a source of pleasure and strength to us both. We discovered that we shared a great love of the horse. I already knew I loved donkeys but I hadn’t yet met many horses. I’d seen them dragging milk and coal carts about; I’d seen them all done up for the Queen’s Coronation; I’d seen them in Westerns at the pictures, but I had never been introduced to one before. But what really happened that day was that Great-aunt Dodie helped me to discover my real mother – not the poor, drunken, frightened woman who reeled into the cafe now and then but the person she had been before she was wounded.
Naturally, grown-ups being what they are, Great-aunt Dodie and Auntie Maggie had extensive discussions about when we’d be home, the provision of grub and whether or not I should take a cardie or even a coat, given the English climate and all. Eventually I was skipping down the steps of Dunroamin and standing beside the silver car that was still parked outside our front door. I later learned it was called a Lagonda. Whatever it was called, I discovered that I liked speed and I loved open-topped cars. Great-aunt Dodie’s driving was fast and assured and before long we were twisting and turning along the country roads.
As we drove, my great-aunt kept up a running commentary on our surroundings. I hadn’t realized, until that day, that my mother had been born and brought up in Somerset. First off, we stopped outside a house with an orchard and a large garden.
‘Cassandra’s school chum, Lilian, lived there,’ my great-aunt told me. ‘They were great friends until the family moved to Brazil. See that big apple tree there, the one next to that gate? Well, your ma fell out of that when she was about your age. Bit clear through her tongue, poor thing. Claret everywhere. Still, she was a brave little soldier; didn’t cry that much. Would you like to see where she was born, your ma? Well, off we go then. It’s not that far.’
We sped between hedgerows for what seemed ages to me and finally came to a halt in front of an imposing pair of wrought-iron gates. To the right of the gates was a building that Great-aunt Dodie called a lodge but that looked just like a little house to me.
We waited for a moment or two, then she heaved a sigh. ‘I’d better knock them up, otherwise we’ll be here all day.’
She got out of the Lagonda and strode over to the door of the lodge and hammered on it. A small, round, grey-haired woman with a bun answered the knock. I heard her cry, ‘Miss Dodie!’ in surprise but I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because they were too far away. Shortly my great-aunt returned to the car and the little round woman opened one of the gates. We drove through and the gate was closed behind us.
‘Thank you, Mrs Saunders,’ Great-aunt Dodie called. ‘Just showing my godchild the old homestead.’ And with that she put the car into gear and, with a cheery wave, we pulled away.
We drove in silence while I took in the scene. We were on a drive lined with horse chestnut trees. On either side there were lawns bounded by high brick walls clothed in espaliered fruit trees. In later years I was to learn that crops of apples, pears and even peaches were to be had from these peculiar trees that looked as if they had been crucified. In front of the walls, wide herbaceous borders provided a riot of summer colour. Old cottage-garden favourites including hollyhocks, golden achillea, pink phlox, purple Canterbury bells and the majestic spikes of blue delphiniums vied for attention. At the front of the borders, close to the ground, heartsease and pansies turned their pretty little faces to the sun. There was a smell of lavender on the light breeze. I was enchanted. We relied on the royal parks and Covent Garden market to supply our floral displays.
We negotiated a right-hand bend and there before us was a large, old house. It wasn’t really anything like as big as Buckingham Palace but it looked it to me. I was overawed and my eyes must have looked like saucers. We drew up at the bottom of a short flight of stone steps guarded by two
stone greyhounds. The house was square and symmetrical. Whoever built it was really keen on the numbers three and nine. There were nine windows on each side, three on each of the three floors. The windows themselves were large and had nine panes of glass, three rows of three. I know this because I had recently mastered my multiplication tables up to the six times and so it was easy to work out.
I was still hanging about at the bottom of the steps when Great-aunt Dodie tugged on a long metal rod to the right of the panelled front door. I heard the jangle of a bell. While we waited, I took in some more details. I was fascinated by a sort of shell thing above the door. You couldn’t really call it a porch because it wouldn’t shelter anyone much or stop the rain from dripping down your neck, but it was pretty. There was a wisteria growing up the left-hand side of the house, although I didn’t know what it was called then. It was obviously very old because its trunk was gnarled and twisted like an arthritic finger, only much, much bigger. Later, when we were inside, I saw an oil painting of the house and in it the wisteria was in full bloom. It looked wonderful, like a blue waterfall cascading over that half of the building.
At last, a small figure dressed in black answered the door. She had a chain hanging from her dress belt and attached to it was a large bunch of keys. She took one look at my great-aunt and her old face broke into a wide smile, rearranging the thousand wrinkles into a new pattern.
‘Miss Dodie, what a surprise. Why didn’t you say you were coming? Mr Charles is up in town. He will be so sorry to have missed you. Come in, come in.’ She stepped back from the entrance to make room and then she saw me. ‘And who is this? Come, child, don’t be afraid, I shan’t eat you. In you come.’