A Dream Came True

by Betty Neels

  And Pooley was no help, bleating about the snow, coming down in earnest now, declaring that they would all die of cold and hunger.

  ‘Oh, stuff,’ said Jemima crossly, and then seeing the look on Pooley’s face, ‘I’m sorry—I’m a bit tired. I’m going to see Lady Manderly…’

  ‘Like that, miss?’ asked her companion, appalled.

  ‘No time to doll myself up,’ said Jemima, although she might have done something about the state of her hair and face if she’d found a mirror to look into.

  She hardly noticed Lady Manderly’s outraged glance but plunged at once into urgent questions.

  ‘I’m trying to find the water main tap,’ she began. ‘It’s getting much colder and if it freezes really hard we’ll get burst pipes.’

  ‘I,’ declared Lady Manderly with ice in her voice, ‘am not a plumber.’

  ‘No, I know—but could you please try and remember if there’s a tap to turn off the water somewhere in this house, Lady Manderly.’

  ‘I have no idea, Jemima, and I’m not interested in the subject. I hope I’m to have my lunch at the usual hour. You look quite unkempt. I suggest that you tidy yourself and return here; my embroidery silks are hopelessly tangled.’

  Jemima, her head full of burst pipes, stared at her. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Manderly, but I have to get your lunch; I’ll try and find time this afternoon to see to the silks.’ She made up the fire and remembered uneasily that if the weather got worse and the oil froze or the electricity went off, there would be no central heating. She was getting as bad as poor Pooley, imagining the worst.

  Only by the time they had finished their lunch imagination didn’t come into it; the sky had darkened and the snow, whipped into a frenzy by the wind, was piled up against the windows, so that it was already dark. They cleared the table together and went in search of lamps and candles. They found two oil lamps and a can of oil in a cupboard lining a passage leading from the kitchen to a labyrinth of small rooms, and a dozen or so candles. There was a torch too, and matches.

  ‘Do you suppose the electricity will be on?’ enquired Pooley, and shivered. ‘It’s ever so quiet, isn’t it?’

  Jemima switched on the kitchen light and said hearteningly: ‘There, you see—we can switch on the television in the drawing-room, though it’ll be too cold to stay there, and I’ll ask Lady Manderly what the news is on the radio. I wish there was another set in the house.’

  She stoked up the Aga again, prepared the vegetables for dinner, made a fruit salad from a variety of tins, and turned her attention to the chicken, while Pooley went in search of more blankets.

  The wind was howling and moaning by now and although it was only mid-afternoon, it was dark. Jemima finished with the chicken and went along to see Lady Manderly and find out how she was faring. She had left her with a pile of books by the fire and a reading lamp at her elbow.

  The room was in darkness save for the firelight. ‘And how long must I wait for someone to turn on the lights for me?’ demanded Lady Manderly.

  Jemima switched on the table lamp. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, Lady Manderly,’ she said in a voice which she strove hard to keep pleasant. ‘There are only the three of us here; we’ve been busy all day keeping the fires going and getting meals and clearing up…’ It didn’t sound much put like that, and she was too tired to explain about fetching coal and wood—besides, she had said it all once.

  She drew the heavy curtains across the windows and Lady Manderly asked grumpily: ‘Is the telephone repaired yet?’

  Jemima crossed the room and lifted the receiver and dialled and nothing happened. ‘I am greatly inconvenienced,’ declared the old lady. ‘Something must be done.’

  ‘I’ll switch on the television and see if there’s any news—Lady Manderly, could we have your radio on and find out what’s happening?’

  ‘If you wish. It’s in my bedroom. Is there no other radio in the house?’

  ‘We can’t find one—we didn’t like to look in Martha’s rooms.’ Jemima went to the door, longing to sit by the fire for just a little while.

  She switched on the television before she went to fetch the radio, but the picture was so bad she couldn’t make head or tail of it. The radio was more helpful, although hardly offering good news. Blizzards covered large parts of Scotland, gales and very low temperatures were expected; already people were stranded in cars, and villages cut off. Jemima switched off and put the set on the table at Lady Manderly’s elbow without mentioning the weather conditions, then went back to the kitchen.

  The Aga seemed to eat coal; she swathed herself in the cloak and opened the back door. The wheelbarrow with its load of fuel was buried under a pile of snow. She went back inside, got the coal shovel, put on gloves, and laboriously got rid of the snow, already ominously frozen, and then for want of anything better, tugged and pulled the wheelbarrow into the kitchen, where it stood untidily, the snow slowly sliding and slipping from the coal on to the floor and making great puddles.

  Pooley made tea presently and Jemima carried a tray along to Lady Manderly. She poured tea for them both and sat down opposite the old lady, hopeful of making their situation clear to her, but in this she was disappointed. Lady Manderly didn’t want to know, everything would be all right in the morning; she would eat her dinner earlier than usual and go to bed.

  She cast an annoyed look at Jemima. ‘And unless you can make yourself presentable, I will dine alone,’ she pronounced.

  Which was a good thing really, since it left Jemima free to get on with the cooking while Pooley crept round the house, making sure that windows and doors were secure and drawing the curtains to keep out the cold, before helping Lady Manderly to change her dress for the evening, something which Jemima found most pathetic. She herself was looking very much the worse for wear by now, but at least the chicken supreme was going to be a success; she had cooked a great pile of potatoes, arranged a salad on a side dish, and cut up the rest of the chicken for a casserole for the next day.

  What with a can of soup, the potatoes puree’d, the salad and the tinned fruit, dinner was quite a success. Pooley reported that it was being eaten, as she went to and fro with the dishes and asked eagerly what they were going to eat.

  ‘Bacon, fried potatoes, baked beans, and I’ve made a treacle tart—we might as well have a good supper.’

  They went to bed after the nine o’clock news; it seemed to be the best place after the tale of bad weather, storms and snowdrifts and more to come. Jemima got into bed, her head still full of ways and means to get more coal into the house and how best to use the food there was, but she soon abandoned this to think about Alexander Cator. Her thoughts, though loving, were a trifle peevish too; he would be warm and well fed, probably enjoying himself with Gloria. Scotland must seem a long way off from London, as yet untroubled by snow and ice and gale force winds. She slept on the thought.

  She woke at her usual time and, wrapped in her dressing gown, with a sweater over her nightie, she crept downstairs. It was still dark, but she peered from the kitchen window and was appalled to see that it was almost covered by snow and, what was far worse, the central heating wasn’t working. She raked and stoked the Aga, put on the kettle and went along to the sitting-room. It was like an ice house, and the fire, long since out, merely served to make it seem colder. She cleared the ashes and left the grate empty; whether she liked it or not, Lady Manderly would have to sit in the kitchen. Pooley joined her presently, and they had a cup of tea and planned their day. ‘You’d have thought that a house this size would have electric fires or gas, or something,’ observed Pooley.

  ‘Yes, but I suspect no one ever stays here during the winter and Martha and Angus have their own rooms. I do wish they hadn’t locked their doors—there might be an oil stove there or calor gas…’ They looked at each other.

  ‘We could break down the door,’ suggested Pooley, not meaning it.

  ‘We may have to,’ said Jemima, and did.

  Lady Mand
erly didn’t take kindly to the idea of sitting in her kitchen, but she was forced to agree that there was really nothing else to do about it. She came downstairs just before lunch, with Pooley trailing behind her, bearing wraps and shawls and Coco prancing behind, and she sat down in the armchair Jemima had carried through from the sitting-room. Thanks to the Aga, the room was warm and the casserole, bubbling gently, gave off a delicious smell.

  Jemima, the meal on and the breakfast dishes washed, had left Pooley to tidy the bedrooms, piled on a quantity of jackets and scarves, got back into the boots and gone outside. Not without difficulty—the snow, beginning to fall again, had piled up outside the door and it was a fight to get through it. And once there, she wasn’t sure where to begin. The path she had so laboriously made had disappeared again, so for that matter had the shovel and most of the shed. She found the shovel and began to clear a way to the coal; something they simply had to have at all costs. It took her the whole morning, but finally she shoved the wheelbarrow, full once more, into the kitchen.

  ‘Coal!’ enquired Lady Manderly, going purple. ‘In the kitchen?’

  Jemima mumbled something; it was a waste of breath trying to make the old lady understand that life was going to be a bit basic until the weather got better—or someone rescued them—Alexander, for instance. Very unlikely, she thought. His logical mind would have assessed their plight by now and decided that they would be comfortable enough in a house well stocked with food, with light and heat and plenty of hot water—only it wasn’t quite like that…

  She peeled off her wet things, got into another sweater and skirt and started on lunch.

  It was almost teatime when the water gave up. Jemima had already filled everything possible with water; they could manage for days with what they had, only baths would be impossible, and she didn’t dare think what would happen when the thaw set in. Lady Manderly woke from a refreshing nap and they had a cup of tea and the last of the bread, the butter spread with a miserly hand by Jemima. They had just finished when the electricity went off, came on again for a few minutes, and then went off again.

  By the light of an oil lamp and a couple of candles, the kitchen looked cosy, while the supper cooked—jacket potatoes and grated cheese; Jemima fetched a pack of cards and played a fast game of Racing Demon while Pooley sat mending by the light of a candle. She was a splendid needlewoman, but Jemima doubted if the cobweb darn she was working upon would be quite up to her usual standard in such a dim light.

  Their hopes that the electricity might come on again slowly faded. Jemima set the table for supper and they gathered round. It was not a very happy meal; Pooley was ill at ease and Jemima and Lady Manderly carried on the kind of conversation which the British, as a race, tend to indulge in when confronted by an awkward situation—the weather, vague world politics, the newest fashions—hardly a successful topic since both ladies had conflicting views on them—Wimbledon and the Royal Family. Not once did their talk descend to the personal, no names were mentioned and no mention was made of their return to London.

  Lady Manderly rose from the table and announced: ‘I shall go to bed. You’re a good cook, Jemima, and the claret was exactly the one I should have chosen myself. Pooley, come with me and when I’m in bed you may fetch me a glass of hot milk and brandy.’

  ‘There’s no milk,’ Jemima pointed out gently. ‘Goodnight, Lady Manderly.’

  Getting into bed in her icy room an hour later, she comforted herself with the thought that nothing more could happen now; they had had the worst.

  She was proved to be wrong. Pooley fell downstairs and broke an arm. It was fortunate, though not from her point of view, of course, that this occurred after she had helped Lady Manderly to dress. She had been carrying the breakfast tray, which had fallen with her, scattering broken china, marmalade, a precious remnant of butter, and tea-leaves in all directions.

  Jemima heard the crash and went galloping out of the kitchen, to find Pooley huddled among the debris. She knelt down beside Pooley and looked at her white face. ‘Where does it hurt?’

  ‘My arm—this one—I think it’s broken, miss.’

  ‘My poor dear! Stay still a moment, let’s see if there’s any other damage before we move you.’

  The rest of Pooley was intact, even if sore and bruised. Jemima was about to help her on to her feet when Lady Manderly appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘And what’s all this?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve never heard such a noise!’

  Jemima bit back a rude word or two. ‘Pooley has broken her arm, Lady Manderly. Would you please go to the dining-room and get her some brandy—we’ve got to get her into the kitchen and see to it, but she’s feeling a little faint.’

  For once Lady Manderly was at a loss for words. She swept past them, scattering odds and ends all over the hall, and returned presently with the brandy.

  ‘And now if you would give me a hand,’ Jemima gave her an enquiring smile, ‘I’ll go on the injured side.’

  Getting Pooley comfortable took some time. The break was easy enough to see; just above the wrist and not, thank heaven, an open fracture. Jemima fetched a scarf and made a sling, produced Panadol from her bag and made a pot of tea. They all sat sipping it while she wondered what was to be done. She could try to reach the village, of course. She went to the front of the house and looked out of the windows. There was nothing to be seen but snow and even if she had known the countryside well, she would never have recognised it. The sky was a frightening yellow and the wind still howled; if she started out, she was sure she wouldn’t get far. She might even get lost, and then what would her two companions do?

  She went back to the kitchen, refilled the cups and said cheerfully: ‘They’ll send a snow plough any time now, I should think. In the meantime we’re warm and dry and there are still plenty of oats. I found some flour too, I’m going to make some bread. Thank heaven for the Aga!’ She got up and rearranged the pillow under Pooley’s injured arm. ‘And you’ll stay there, Pooley. I’ve got plenty of Panadol and you’re to say the moment the pain gets bad. I’ll get your tapestry work, and some books, Lady Manderly, so that you can be comfortable.’

  The house had become icy. She put on another sweater while she was upstairs and took down some blankets from the beds, to tuck round her companions. ‘I know none of us like the idea, but I believe it would be wise if we all slept here tonight.’ She saw Lady Manderly’s look of horrified outrage. ‘We can’t afford to be ill,’ she pointed out reasonably.

  The day wore on. Jemima hardly noticed it passing, there was so much to do. She was astonished when Lady Manderly offered to wipe the supper dishes, and still more astonished when she added: ‘You’re a good girl, Jemima. When we’ve tidied up here, will you go and fetch the brandy? I think it would do us all good.’ She added: ‘I suppose there’s no question of a bath?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ll take a kettle of hot water up to your bathroom when you want it, Lady Manderly.’

  Getting ready for bed was a nightmare; there was a sofa in the sitting-room which Jemima pushed into the kitchen, where it took up a frightful lot of room. But at least Lady Manderly could sleep in comparative dignity. Pooley she made comfortable in the easy chair, and for herself she carried down the duvets off the beds and curled up on the floor. She hadn’t undressed Pooley, only wrapped shawls round her, but Lady Manderly had put on a nightgown and allowed herself to be tucked in, making almost no fuss.

  Jemima blew out the lamp and rolled herself up in the duvets. She was so tired that she could have slept on her feet. All the same, she had a little time to think with longing of Alexander. She had managed so far, but she felt that her patience was slipping; not only that, she was just a little frightened. Anything could happen…if only Alexander would come! She was on the point of dozing off, but she woke herself up again; she was being silly and childish; there was no earthly reason why he should come even if he were worried about his aunt. He would only have to get in touch with the local police.

&n
bsp; She had to get up in the night, to give Pooley more Panadol. She stayed with her until she had fallen asleep again, and was just about to blow out the candle when Lady Manderly’s majestic snores ceased. ‘You’ve been awake long, Jemima?’

  ‘No,’ whispered Jemima. ‘Poor Pooley was in pain—she’s had something, though, and she’s asleep.’

  ‘Come here for a minute.’

  She padded over to the sofa. ‘Is there anything you want?’ she asked.

  ‘No—at least, there are a great many things I should like, but it would be pointless to say so.’ Lady Manderly hesitated. ‘What exactly is our situation, and I don’t want to be put off with untruths.’

  Jemima put down her candle and perched on a chair. ‘I’m not quite sure—we haven’t much food left, though we can last for quite a while yet—there’s plenty of oatmeal and I’m saving the other chicken. There’s some flour left for another couple of loaves and tins of caviare and peaches. But we have to be careful with the water and there’s no milk. Pooley ought to see a doctor soon, and unless the weather clears I can’t get at the coal.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘To go on as we are and keep warm. Just as soon as it’s possible I’ll have a go at getting to the village. Do you suppose Martha and Angus will try and get help to us?’

  ‘Most certainly they will, but probably they’re in a like case.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ whispered Lady Manderly, ‘I wonder what Gloria would have done in your place?’

  ‘Just the same, I expect,’ said Jemima untruthfully, and went back to her duvets.

  They breakfasted off porridge and milkless tea and Jemima’s bread, and the morning was taken up with restoring the kitchen to some sort of order, seeing to Pooley and helping Lady Manderly to dress. The cold was biting and the old lady wrapped herself in her mink coat as they left her bedroom. She looked a little pale, Jemima thought uneasily as she opened a can of soup and peeled the potatoes. She hoped it was just tiredness and lack of fresh air. When, later that morning, Lady Manderly began to sneeze and complained of a sore throat, Jemima found herself on the edge of tears. Instead, she got out the brandy bottle and made hot drinks for the three of them. She felt mean not offering Panadol to the old lady, but Pooley needed them more.