A Tale of Two Families

by Dodie Smith

  He was welcoming, if slightly astonished. ‘Are you sure you’re not too tired?’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t really making overtures. But I can’t say I am tired.’

  ‘I can’t imagine ever being tired again.’

  Somehow the fact that they were all on their own in this tiny house and the tiny house was all on its own in the countryside – not cheek by jowl with neighbouring houses (and no Baggy in the next room) – seemed to June both romantic and sexually exciting – ‘It’s like being on our honeymoon.’

  ‘It’s not, thank God,’ said Robert, and reminded her of various ludicrous aspects of their honeymoon including the uncomfortable hotel bed and the drunk gentleman who had thumped on their door, at the most tactless of moments, wanting to know why this room wasn’t his. They exchanged memories while they undressed and learned their way round the bathroom – June said, ‘There ought to be a law that the hot taps are always on the same side.’ (Not that, as yet, the hot water came out hot; but Robert surprised himself by finding out how to put on the heater.) Then, with the light out, they stood at the window to take a last look at the night.

  ‘No moon,’ said June, with slight complaint.

  ‘There was one but it’s clouded over. Anyway, a moon would really be too much.’

  In the early days of marriage June, after reading that some women, while being made love to by their husbands, thought of some other man, had – while responding enthusiastically to Robert’s love-making – allowed herself to think of George. The experiment had not been a success. She had ended by feeling she was insulting both Robert and George and, for once in her life, had had no fun whatever. She was, on the whole, pleased about this because it proved to her that she loved Robert in every way and nothing she felt for George menaced Robert’s happiness. She was just a wonderfully lucky woman who could find complete satisfaction in her marriage plus a little extra satisfaction (known to nobody but herself) outside it. Nothing to worry about.

  And that first night at the cottage, lying awake after Robert was asleep, but not lying awake through any lack of satisfaction, she allowed herself the extra satisfaction of recalling her feelings when George had carried her over the threshold of the cottage. ‘Mrs Have-it-both-ways,’ she told herself. ‘Well, lucky old me.’

  The next morning the sun shone and the honeymoon period for both households was well and truly underway. June and Robert slept until May thumped on the front door and shouted an invitation to breakfast with her. She had already been up for well over an hour, given George breakfast and seen him off in a taxi, taken Baggy breakfast in bed – ‘Though he insisted on getting out of bed to eat it’ – and made her plans for the day. Foremost of these was the discovery of some domestic help.

  And by lunchtime, after an almost house-to-house enquiry in the village, she had unearthed a thin, wiry Mrs Matson who never had but thought she might. And it was to turn out that Mrs Matson was really three helps, not one. On the slightest provocation her aged mother-in-law and fifteen-year-old daughter would come up and lend a hand. Only one Matson was officially employed. The others were merely rewarded by free meals. But the official Mrs Matson’s wages were (unofficially) larger when Mrs Matson, senior, say, cleaned the silver or Miss Matson, say, did a bit of weeding. It was all probably illegal but it worked splendidly.

  May also unearthed, only a few days later, an excellent carpenter who put up two magnificent cupboards on a landing – ‘Such bliss to be able to hang up all one’s summer dresses in winter and all one’s winter dresses in summer, instead of putting them away in cardboard boxes – and however much tissue paper one uses the creases never really come out until the clothes are cleaned, and one had them cleaned before they were put away.’ June’s summer and winter clothes shared a wardrobe with Robert’s suits and only got cleaned when they were dirty, but she admired May’s summer and winter cupboards and assisted with the painting of wild roses on one and snowdrops on the other. May then decided that these looked ‘amateur’ and painted them out – ‘After all, I can remember which cupboard is which.’

  June eventually came to the conclusion that May was invincible as regards laying hands on any kind of help she might conceivably need – ‘If you wanted to have the Crown Jewels repaired you’d find someone to do it.’

  ‘Well, Tom tells me there is a particularly good little working jeweller, two villages away. I did think I might have one or two things reset.’

  Tom was the taxi driver who had first brought them to the Dower House. May came to use him much as if he were her chauffeur and his taxi her private car. ‘Well, it’s cheaper than buying an extra car – and I’d have to learn to drive it. And Tom’s so helpful.’

  June was roped in for all May’s outings and always given a share of May’s discoveries. (Mrs Matson, mère et fille, spent a good bit of time cleaning at the cottage, and the carpenter put up shelves wherever the cottage could find room for them.) The sisters were always happy in each other’s company. ‘Really,’ May pointed out after a few weeks, ‘we’ve spent more time together than in all the years since we’ve been married. Oh, June darling, it is working out, isn’t it? And the boys like it.’

  The boys undoubtedly did. Robert, now, even enjoyed his critical work and his one day a week in London. And he would have started his novel at once had he not been put off by too much help from May. She persuaded Sarah Strange to show him over part of the Hall and he even had a brief meeting with Sarah’s grandfather who, if vague, was civil. Unfortunately Robert found both the old man and his house disillusioning. They weren’t Gothic, they were decayed Edwardian, quite unlike the Hall’s Palladian exterior and Robert’s mental picture of crumbling glories within. He must return to the Hall of his imagination. It would come back in time. Meanwhile, he would relax and enjoy the swiftly unfolding spring.

  What George enjoyed as much as anything – to his surprise – was getting up early; well, not the actual getting up, but being up, being given breakfast by May, driving himself to the station through the fresh early morning, then the hour’s journey on the train when he almost always had a First Class carriage to himself and could put in uninterrupted work on the day ahead. The return journey was as convivial as the journey to town was solitary. The train was usually full and he was soon on chatting terms with any number of cheerful men commuting to their country homes. George liked men en masse – but not women; women needed to be known individually. Not that, for the present, he felt any need to know any women in any way, apart from May and June.

  He found his evenings delightful. May always gave him an admirable dinner, and if, as occasionally, she had some job to finish afterwards, he would stroll over to see Robert and June. There was nearly always something he wanted to discuss and often some present he wanted to take. George particularly liked bringing presents home for the two households; food, books, gramophone records, absurd puzzles. Baggy would spend hours over the puzzles.

  The dear old man was generally believed to be both comfortable and happy – and so he was, he frequently told himself, once he’d got used (well, more or less) to his room. (Never would he forget that first night. When he closed his heavy curtains – you had to pull complicated strings – he felt claustrophobic, but with the curtains unclosed he seemed to be sleeping in the front garden; not normal to sleep in a ground-floor room. He’d been thankful for May’s Thermos of hot chocolate. He had that every night and it was an improvement on just one cup of cocoa; not that he lay awake much now he’d got quite to like his squashy bed.) He felt sure his daily walks in the country air were healthy – if none too safe: no pavements, and cars came so quickly and rarely sounded their horns; also he could have done with more houses. On London walks he had found it interesting to notice when house property changed hands and to investigate, when possible, what price had been paid. But what really counted now was the pleasure of seeing George every evening. And May’s cooking was splendid – though he wasn’t nowadays particularly interested in food; old age, no
doubt. Probably old age, too, accounted for his aversion to his bathroom. Baths had become a duty rather than a pleasure. Well, wisest to take each day as it came along – which, anyway, one had to.

  Hugh and Corinna, on their first weekend, approved of everything but with less exuberance than their parents could have wished. Hugh realised that a little more excitement would be welcome and gave Corinna the hint. ‘We must churn it up a bit – and tell Prue and Dickon to, when they come at Easter.’

  ‘I doubt if they’ll oblige,’ said Corinna. ‘Were we as superior as they are, when we were their age?’

  ‘I fear we’re still pretty superior, from our youthful parents’ point of view. Let’s show some bright-eyed enthusiasm.’

  On their second weekend Hugh and Corinna were there when the Vicar called. May, at first, had feared an influx of callers but Sarah Strange had reassured her. ‘There’s no one in the village who’s likely to call except the Vicar – and he’s a very harmless old bachelor.’

  Harmless or not, May decided he must be made to understand that none of them were churchgoers. She had just broken this news to him – after a compensating good tea – when Hugh, feeling sorry for the deflated old gentleman, said he would come to church on Easter Sunday. May was not pleased.

  ‘It’s the thin edge of the wedge,’ she protested to Hugh, after the Vicar had gone.

  ‘But darling Aunt May, he didn’t do any wedging. I offered.’

  ‘Very, very unwise – and when I’d extricated us all so tactfully. And I did say he could count on us to subscribe, and send things to bazaars and jumble sales and whatnot.’

  Corinna said, ‘I must say I was surprised at you, Hugh. It was almost hypocritical, seeing how you feel about religion. Your disapproval is – well, positively religious.’

  ‘It won’t harm us to expose ourselves to it just for once, in a nice old country church.’

  ‘Us? You can count me out.’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘Are you really cross?’

  She was and she wondered why; then knew. She felt she couldn’t bear it if Hugh got any gooder. Then she noticed his anxious eyes and relented. Church wouldn’t affect him, one way or the other. And she liked him for being kind to the old Vicar. ‘No, of course I’m not cross,’ she assured him. ‘And I’d better come with you – to make sure you don’t get roped in to teach at Sunday School or something frightful. We’ll get Sarah to take us with her.’

  Sarah, more than willing to be friends with every member of both families, showed particular eagerness to be friends with Hugh and Corinna. They decided she was starved for youthful company and were particularly nice to her; though a couple of times, when they saw her striding across the park towards the Dower House, they slipped out and went for a walk on their own. That is, they began to walk on their own but Sarah seemed to know by instinct where they had gone and came after them. The second time she did this it occurred to Hugh that she was like a dog able to follow one’s trail. He remarked on this to Corinna, after they had separated from Sarah, adding, ‘Bonnie used to do that, remember? It was a good thing she had to go to the country, really.’

  ‘She didn’t have to go. You sent her.’

  ‘It was the right thing to do.’

  Corinna opened her mouth to speak, then stopped herself. She had been going to point out to Hugh that he could now again have a dog. But why mention it? Why not get the dog for him as a surprise – and at last make up for his sacrifice of Bonnie?

  She had been small and white and of no known breed but extremely pretty and well-behaved. Hugh had bought her from the Battersea Dogs’ Home with money received on his tenth birthday. Shortly after this, Corinna had come to spend a Saturday with him, and the two children had been allowed to go to the pictures on their own. They had shut Bonnie up in the back garden (this had been soon after the move into Baggy’s house) but she somehow got out and caught up with them just as they reached a busy crossing. Hugh said he must take her home. Corinna said that would make them late for the pictures. She gave Bonnie a brisk slap and said, ‘Go home on your own, bad dog.’

  Bonnie, when acquired by Hugh, had been a cowed little dog and she had only recently become un-cowed. The slap cowed her again but left her with enough strength to dash out into the traffic. Hugh dashed after her. Corinna feared he would be run over and when he returned, carrying his dog, Corinna slapped her again saying, ‘Bad, bad Bonnie. It’s all your fault.’ Hugh pushed Corinna away and she fell backwards into the road, actually knocking a cyclist over.

  Neither Corinna nor the cyclist were much hurt, but that very afternoon Hugh gave Bonnie to the people next door, who were on the point of moving farther out of London. Corinna, and his whole family, begged him not to but it was no use. He kept telling himself that he might have killed Corinna, that the bicycle might have been a car. And he was agonised by the rage he had felt when he pushed her. He wanted to punish himself for that, and he did.

  Bonnie simply started a new life and certainly a safer one as she was nowhere near any traffic. After a few months Hugh and Corinna went on a Green Line bus to visit her and saw that, though she remembered Hugh, she was now devoted to her new owners. Corinna had at once stopped harrowing herself about Bonnie but, even now, she could feel harrowed about what Hugh must have felt when he was ten years old.

  Having got the idea of giving him a dog she at once made sure that neither her mother nor her aunt had anything against it, and then decided to consult Sarah. The only dogs at the Hall were four aged spaniels (quite, as far as Corinna was concerned, indistinguishable from each other) but Sarah had spoken of going to local dog-shows and would probably know how a dog who looked something like Bonnie could be obtained. So the next day, having made sure that Hugh was busy gardening, she intercepted Sarah as she walked to church.

  Sarah was most anxious to help and, after hearing the story of Bonnie, quite saw that the new dog ought to resemble her. But as she was of no known breed, this presented difficulties.

  ‘Surely there must be a breed that’s near to her,’ said Corinna. ‘She was so pretty – a bit like a smooth fox-terrier but with a long tail. And she was snow white all over.’

  ‘White,’ said Sarah thoughtfully. ‘How about a bull-terrier. I know someone who breeds them.’

  ‘Oh, not a bull-terrier. I’ve always thought they were very peculiar dogs.’

  ‘So they are. But nice-peculiar. How about a white boxer?’

  ‘I don’t like their pushed-in faces. And they’re so chunky. Bonnie was so very slim and graceful, with lovely floppy ears. She was a bit like a very small Dalmatian but without spots. Do they all have spots?’

  ‘They certainly do,’ said Sarah. ‘But some of them have fewer spots than others. The woman I know who breeds bull-terriers breeds Dalmatians too. I’ll skip church and take you there now. We can catch a bus in the village if we run for it.’

  They ran, Sarah out-stripping Corinna who only caught the bus because it waited for her. Having recovered her breath she said, ‘But Sarah, a Dalmatian won’t really be like Bonnie.’

  Sarah said patiently, ‘Bonnie was a mongrel, Corinna. Mongrels aren’t quite like any breed.’

  ‘That really ought to make them valuable,’ said Corinna.

  The kennels were two villages away. Corinna expected them to be clean, white and well-kept, suitable for pure-bred dogs. In actual fact there wasn’t a lick of white paint to be seen and she formed the impression that the various ramshackle sheds might collapse in anything like a gale. A number of wild-seeming dogs were milling round in a field which was more mud than grass. They barked furiously on sight of Sarah and Corinna and continued to bark while Sarah talked, or rather, shouted to their owner who came out of an adjacent cottage. She was an elderly square-shaped lady in mud-spattered tweeds. Corinna, deafened by both the barking and the shouting, said she wasn’t really sure she wanted a dog. This made no impression so she said it again at the full force of her lungs, adding, ‘Anyway, I need a
gentle dog.’

  The tweedy lady looked delighted. ‘Then I’ve just the right dog for you. She’s indoors because she’s too sensitive to play with these rough beasts. Come on in.’

  The cottage looked little less ramshackle than the kennels but the sitting room was pleasantly furnished and there was a good fire. In front of this lay a very small Dalmatian who instantly sprang up and dashed behind a sofa. The tweedy lady hoicked her out saying, ‘This is Penny; possibly the most exquisite Dalamatian I’ve ever bred. Indeed, she’s quite unique. Stand up, Penny.’

  Supported by her owner, Penny just managed to stand, then collapsed and rolled over on her back, registering abject terror.

  ‘Oh, Bonnie used to do that when Hugh first had her,’ said Corinna, stooping to soothe Penny – who whimpered piteously and then summoned up the strength to dash behind the sofa again.

  The dogs outside, who had quietened down, now barked louder than ever.

  ‘Someone else has arrived. Excuse me a moment,’ said Penny’s owner.

  Sarah closed the door after her and said hurriedly, ‘Now, listen, while you’ve the chance. Quite probably, this dog is unique. She’s got perfect dark eyes, dark nose, straight tail. She’s beautifully made and her spots look like being superb. But she’s undersized – at eight months old she’s no bigger than most five-months-old pups and already she’s losing her puppy fat. Of course she’ll go on growing for quite a while yet, but not enough for the show ring.’

  ‘Who cares? She’s the same size as Bonnie and very pretty. And she’s not happy here.’

  ‘Oh, that’s just her nervous temperament. I assure you the old girl’s been pampering her – I’m surprised she’s willing to let her go. There is just a chance that she’ll grow big enough to make a champion.’

  ‘She needs loving for her own sake, not just because she might be a champion. Here, Penny darling –’ Corinna, crawling behind the sofa, managed to get hold of Penny who, suddenly succumbing allowed herself to be carried like a baby. I’ll have her. How much will she cost?’