Mennyms Under Siege

by Sylvia Waugh

  Appleby and Pilbeam went in and looked round. A scattering of other customers peered closely at possible purchases . . . Pilbeam headed for the CDs. Appleby was soon engrossed in Country and Western.

  “Not a bad selection,” said a voice beside her.

  Appleby nearly dropped the precious 78 she was holding. A sidewise glance identified the speaker as the boy they’d seen in the Grove. Appleby should have known better, but the temptation to flirt with danger was too strong. After all, the shop was dimly lit and her tell-tale eyes were well-hidden. Her garish style of dress and make-up were surely disguise enough to make it possible to take a tiny risk.

  “I have most of them,” she said. “I’ve been collecting them for years.” And Tony would never suspect how many years!

  At the back of the shop, lit by a dull red light that revolved slowly, was an old juke box. Tony and Appleby drifted towards it and looked down at the list of records, all old. The box had been adapted to take twenty pence coins.

  “What shall we have?” asked Tony, coin at the ready.

  “Number 38,” said Appleby.

  Then the juke box came into action, swung a disc onto its geriatric turntable and began to play tinnily a sixties version of a thirties-type song . . .

  Oh, lover, let my heart take wings

  Don’t tie it to your apron strings

  I know that life would better be

  If only you’d unfetter me . . .

  Let me be . . . Set me free . . .

  The send-up of Jessie Matthews was sung by a sweet-voiced young man with an impeccable English accent. Appleby joined in with the words, sotto voce. She had known them long enough.

  “You know the words,” said Tony.

  “I know all the words to every song on that box,” said Appleby.

  “You don’t!” said Tony, not in disbelief but in surprise and admiration.

  “Yes I do,” said Appleby. “In fact, last time I counted, I knew all the words of 529 songs.”

  “Wow!” said Tony. “Are you a good singer?”

  Appleby giggled.

  “Not so as you’d notice,” she said, “but I honestly do know all the words.”

  “Do you sing in the bath?” said Tony. It was the obvious, bantering question.

  But not for Appleby. She looked startled and suspicious, as if Tony had made some very improper suggestion. What a kinky idea! She had only once been in a bath full of water and that was horror of horrors and part of the worst experience of her life. And who in their right senses would want to sit and sing in an empty bath? That was a babyish, Googles pretend.

  “No!” said Appleby sharply.

  “Well, I do,” said Tony, “and I bet my voice is much worse than yours. And I make up some of the words as I go along.”

  At that moment Pilbeam looked their way and was horrified. She put down the CD she’d been about to buy and walked swiftly towards her sister.

  “Come on, Appleby,” she said. “We’re going to be late.”

  Then she marched her out of the shop before Tony could say another word.

  The bell over the door jangled. The proprietor gave a careful glance to assure himself that these customers who had paid for nothing were leaving empty-handed.

  Tony Barras stood beside the juke box. Appleby’s departure had been so abrupt that he needed time to collect his wits.

  Once outside the shop, Appleby and Pilbeam never looked back or slowed down till they reached the bottom of the High Street and were nearly home.

  “You had no business to speak to that boy,” said Pilbeam. “After all we said about being careful!”

  “There was no harm done,” said Appleby.

  “No harm!” said Pilbeam. “He knows who you are and where you live. That might be harm enough.”

  “All right,” said Appleby. “I won’t do it again. But I do get away with it, you know. I’m different from the rest of you.”

  “Not that different,” said Pilbeam.

  They turned into Brocklehurst Grove.

  “We’ll not tell them,” said Appleby. “If we do, we’ll never hear the last of it. It was bad enough before.”

  Pilbeam agreed, but there was one point on which she took a firm stand.

  “We won’t be able to go out again,” she said. “Not for a very long time. Granpa is right. It’s too risky.”

  Soobie spotted them returning, but he said nothing.

  8

  A Clandestine Courtship

  A FEW DAYS after the visit to Sounds Easy, Appleby looked out of the lounge window and was startled to see Tony Barras walking up the front path. No one else was in the lounge at the time. Soobie was listening to the radio in his own room. Appleby rushed out to the hall and waited for the bell to ring. What she would have done if it had rung is far from clear. Even she might have hesitated before opening the door.

  Fortunately, there was no ring at the doorbell. Instead, to Appleby’s intense delight, a note fell through the letter-box onto the doormat. She picked it up, and as expected, saw that it was addressed to ‘Appleby’, just the one name, the strange name Tony had heard and remembered from the record shop.

  “What’s that just come in the door?” called Tulip from the breakfast-room.

  “Nothing, Gran,” said Appleby. “Just an advert for double-glazing.”

  She hurried to her room and sat down on the floor with her back to the door. Until she had read the letter she did not want to risk Pilbeam walking in on her. That was the worst of Pilbeam, thought Appleby as she opened the envelope, she would just walk in without even knocking. And she was so fussy about everything, especially now she was eighteen.

  Dear Appleby, the letter began, It was great fun talking to you the other day. I wish your sister (it was your sister, wasn’t it?) hadn’t made you leave so suddenly. My dad says not to trouble your family because you don’t like to mix with us, so I am taking a bit of a risk writing to you. I only hope you are allowed to read a note addressed to you, and that I won’t land you in trouble by writing. If you can manage to write back, perhaps we could arrange to meet some time and go out somewhere together. It would have to be a secret. My dad has some very strict ideas about respecting other people’s wishes. But your family’s wishes need not be yours. Like I said, it was great fun talking to you. People like you aren’t shy. I look forward to hearing from you. Tony Barras.

  P.S. You needn’t worry that my dad might read your letter – he never reads letters not addressed to him. That’s something else he’s very strict about. And a good job too!

  Appleby read uninterrupted. When she finished, she got up from the floor and put the note carefully away in the inner pocket of her shoulder bag. Pity I can’t write back, she thought, but that really would land me in trouble.

  It took a day and a half of sheer boredom for Appleby to go back on her sensible decision to ignore the note. Pilbeam was still annoyed with her for talking to Tony in the record shop. They were very cool towards each other these days.

  I could write to him, Appleby thought, it would not be such a bad thing to do. If I don’t reply at all, he might come here again, and I might not be there to cover his tracks. That would surely be worse than writing a careful answer. Besides, it would be more fun than anything else I have to do.

  Dear Tony, she wrote, I would have replied straightaway to your letter, but I have to be very cautious. Your father is right – my family do not mix with outsiders. We are personages of royal blood, descendants of a deposed European line which I would not even dare to name. Breathe not a word of this to anyone. Destroy this note as soon as you have read it. I know you won’t betray me. There are so few people in this world that I can trust, but I am sure I can trust you.

  As for meeting you, that would be very difficult. Write to me again. But do not put your letter in the letter-box. It was sheer luck that I picked it up and not some other member of the household. All letters coming into this house are censored. So we shall need a secret post-box. Ther
e is a deep cleft between the bricks just to the right of our gatepost. If you wish to write to me, leave your letter there. I shall look out of the landing window each evening at seven. If I see a light go on and off three times in quick succession at your house, I shall know that there is a note in the wall for me. That would be really interesting. Being a member of a royal house can be pretty boring. Your friend, Appleby Mennym.

  Appleby wrote Tony’s name and address on the envelope, put a stamp on it, and waited her chance to sneak out to the post-box. This was not the easiest of undertakings. It was not just that she was not supposed to leave the house. There was the more difficult problem of making sure that Pilbeam should suspect nothing. Every time the coast seemed clear, Pilbeam would somehow be there.

  “Are you watching me?” said Appleby crossly. “I can’t seem to move without your being there.”

  “Is there anything to watch?” said Pilbeam. “You promised me there would be no more outings till Granpa was satisfied it was safe. You know the danger we were nearly in last time.”

  “I said no more outings and I meant no more outings,” said Appleby. It all depended what one called an ‘outing’. If it meant a trip to the shops or the Market, Appleby would keep her promise, well, for the time-being anyway. Going out after dark to post a letter did not count. And eventually she managed to do it. She was not even detected when she came back.

  A few days later, the light in an upstairs room at Number 1 flashed off and on three times in rapid succession. A line of communication had been established. Appleby hurried down to the garden gate and drew her letter from between the stones.

  “What are you doing out here?” demanded Tulip as she saw her granddaughter returning up the path. “You are not supposed to be out at all.”

  “I haven’t been anywhere,” said Appleby. “The house was stifling. I just wanted a breath of fresh air, Granny. I bet that’s why you are out here too.”

  It was true, and bright of Appleby to realise it. Granny Tulip always did like the evening air.

  “We’d better both go in now,” said Tulip. “Your mother will be none too pleased if she thinks you’re missing.” And like two old friends, they went into the house together.

  Appleby went straight up to her room, closed the door behind her, put the letter in her bedside drawer and got ready for bed. If Pilbeam came in, she would see Appleby sitting up in bed reading a magazine and would never suspect the letter hidden inside.

  Dear Appleby, Tony wrote, I loved your letter. I don’t know how much of it was true, or how much fantasy, but it made interesting reading. And don’t worry. I have destroyed it as you asked.

  I hope we manage to think up some way of meeting again. Could you not sneak away and come round to my house some time? My dad is going away for a day or two, something to do with his new job, and my great-aunts go to bed very early. We could listen to records and have a meal together, well, a sort of meal. Do you like Chinese takeaways? Think about it and let me know. It would have to be next Tuesday or Wednesday.

  I am going back to school in Harrogate in a fortnight’s time, but we could still meet during the holidays. I really would like to get to know you better. No need to bother with the post for your reply. Just leave your note in the cleft in the wall. That’s quicker and quite handy. I’ll check it every evening after seven.

  Please write soon, love, Tony

  Appleby read the letter two or three times over. She was not sure whether to be annoyed with him for doubting her story, but on consideration she decided that since it was fantasy anyway it was not really necessary for her to be indignant. At least he was not asking for the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth! There were times when Appleby could be very practical.

  The invitation was something else. Appleby had heard of Chinese takeaways. Eating with chopsticks might make a good pretend. But Tony was a human being and he would not understand about pretends.

  Dear Tony, wrote Appleby, It was lovely of you to think I might be able to come and have a meal at your house and listen to your records. It made me realise all over again just how much of a prisoner I am. To come to your home would be impossible. If we are to continue as friends, it can only be as secret penfriends. But even that can be fun.

  Tell me about your school in Harrogate. Do you like going there? Do you play cricket and go rowing on the river? Are you clever at exams and things? I have never been allowed to take any exams. We have a governess called Miss Quigley. She is very strict. My grandfather thinks highly of her because she has an Oxford degree and speaks seven languages. Myself, I would much prefer to go away to school.

  Please write again. Love, Appleby

  P.S. Very important – don’t forget to destroy this letter. I would be in terrible trouble if anyone found out.

  The friendship flourished – seven letters in as many days – but there was, of course, no hope of any meeting. When Tony left for Harrogate, Appleby’s feelings were mixed. She would miss the excitement of sending and receiving letters. And she was beginning to feel a genuine attachment for Tony. But secrets can be wearing after a while, especially when they involve so much effort. Pilbeam seemed always to be on watch.

  9

  The Errand-girl

  “YOU CAN TELL her to get me another ream of paper, same as the last. And a few more books of postage stamps won’t come in wrong,” said Sir Magnus.

  It was the Thursday after Easter and Tulip had come to see what items she should put on Miss Quigley’s weekly shopping list. This was the big one. Other days of the week Miss Quigley was sent as required for odds and ends. Wool, of course, was an entirely separate item with a shopping expedition all to itself. Miss Quigley was very ignorant about wool and Tulip had to give her most specific instructions.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Vinetta was ordering soap powder and a new pair of scissors.

  “Don’t buy the cheap ones in the Market, Hortensia,” she said. “The Market’s good for most things, but not scissors. Go to the hardware store in Albion Street, next to Woolworth’s.”

  Poopie came in from the garden and, seeing Miss Quigley all ready in her outdoor clothes, he said, “Is Miss Quigley going shopping?”

  “You know she is,” said his mother. “She always goes shopping on a Thursday. This is her big shopping day. What do you want?”

  Poopie went on talking to his mother as if Miss Quigley needed an interpreter.

  “Can she get me four new batteries? Longlife, HP11s.” On further thought he added, “I’d better give her a dud one to take with her. Otherwise she’s sure to get it wrong.”

  Miss Quigley gave him a very severe look, but said nothing.

  The list went on. Even Joshua added a request.

  “Ask her to pop into the cobbler’s. My black shoes need heeling. Rubber not leather.”

  And finally, just as Miss Quigley was on her way to the front door carrying two large shopping bags, Wimpey came rushing out of the playroom.

  “Please, Miss Quigley,” she said, “if I give you my pocket money, would you bring me a surprise?”

  Miss Quigley looked bewildered.

  “I wouldn’t know what to bring,” she said.

  “Anything,” said Wimpey, looking up at her eagerly. “Anything at all.”

  “I don’t think I can do that,” said Hortensia, giving real thought to the child’s request. “I might bring something you don’t like and then your pocket money would be wasted.”

  “When Mum did the shopping she often brought me surprises and I always liked them. I like everything. Honest I do.”

  Hortensia looked at Wimpey’s earnest little face and accepted the commission, albeit reluctantly.

  When she went out, the treacherous April sky was promising the blessing of a bright Spring day. By the time she came home it was drizzly, windy and miserable. The bags were full and heavy. Miss Quigley, as usual, had procured every item on the list. It had taken her the best part of four hours, going from one shop to anothe
r in scattered parts of the town.

  “You’re a marvel,” said Vinetta. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  She took the bulging bags from her and helped her out of her damp coat. Then they both went into the lounge where Wimpey was already waiting.

  “It’s in the brown bag,” said Miss Quigley with a wan smile.

  Wimpey carefully unpacked the bag until she came to a box that was clearly meant for her. Trembling fingers opened the ‘surprise’.

  “That’s super, Miss Quigley,” said Wimpey, giving her an unexpected hug. “That little piano’s just the right size for my ship.”

  Miss Quigley sat in the lounge recovering. It was embarrassing to be praised so much, especially when she had made up her mind to resign. On the long walk home she had given it much thought. The heavy bags made it impossible to carry her umbrella. She had stood in a shop doorway and struggled to put a rain-square over her hat, but the rain had trickled uncomfortably down the creases in the plastic and soaked right into her neck. This awful discomfort, added to weeks of forbearance, and feeling exploited, finally drove her to make a very difficult decision. Now Vinetta had to be told. They would all have to be told. And the telling gave Hortensia no joy.

  “I am sorry, Vinetta,” she said. “I really am sorry, but I can’t go on. When I came here, it was as nanny to Baby Googles. I am not a nanny any more. I am a general dogsbody and I’ve had enough.”

  Vinetta looked sharply at her friend. She suddenly knew what was coming next and she couldn’t bring herself to believe it.

  “Today was my last day, my dear,” said Hortensia. “I’m not working here any more. I’m returning to my little house in Trevethick Street. I have already written to my friend Maud to tell her I will be coming. I hope you will still allow me to visit you from time to time. And I do hope we will always be friends. But enough is enough.”

  Soobie, in his seat by the bay window, listened and felt respect for the stand she was taking, even if it did mean her going back to the daftest of all pretends.