What with one thing and another my visit to the Bull and Bush is somewhat disturbing and I walk home to The Small House in a thoughtful mood.
Wednesday, 11th July
It is unprecedented for Mrs. Daulkes to be late in arriving upon the doorstep at precisely nine o’clock. This morning, however, Mrs. Daulkes is about ten minutes after schedule. She arrives breathless with haste and looking quite unlike her usual cheerful self. When I ask her if anything is the matter she bursts into sobs and rushes madly into the kitchen, banging the door behind her. I pursue her and find her dropping tears into the sink.
At first Mrs. Daulkes refuses to tell me what has befallen her but after a little persuasion I discover that her father is ill and she has been sent for. She wants to go to Stepney and see him.
“Of course you must go!” I exclaim.
Mrs. Daulkes says yes, of course she must go. Jim can say what he likes but your father’s your father and they wouldn’t never have sent for her if he hadn’t been bad. She wouldn’t never forgive herself if she didn’t go. Jim doesn’t understand what she feels. He never even tried to understand. Selfish, that’s Jim. Spoilt, that’s what Jim is. He doesn’t think of nobody but himself and his own comfort. But she doesn’t care, she’s going to Stepney straight off and if Jim doesn’t like it he can lump it . . .
All this time Mrs. Daulkes is washing up the breakfast dishes and sprinkling them with tears.
I tell her to leave them and go home at once and pack so that she can travel to London by the mid-day train.
Mrs. Daulkes sobs louder and says in blurred tones that the bus is cheaper and she would rather go by bus.
I tell her to go home and pack her suitcase and catch the bus.
Mrs. Daulkes says yes, that’s right; she’ll just finish washing up and then she’ll go. She can’t help it if there’s nobody to get Jim’s breakfast and see the children off to school . . . “Oh dear!” sobs Mrs. Daulkes. “Who’s going to? Who’s going to see to everything and look after Eric? Who’s going to look after you? Who’s going to sing the solo at the Women’s Institute on Thursday? Well, I know who’ll do that,” declares Mrs. Daulkes, fiercely dabbing at her poor red eyes with a ball of wet handkerchief. “Alice Seager’ll be only too pleased to oblige—not ’alf she won’t! But it’s to be ’oped she won’t go flat in the middle—and you aren’t as ’elpless as you look—though ’ow I’ll ever look Mrs. Bollings in the face, leaving you stranded all in a minute—but the worst is Jim and the children. Oh dear, it is a problem!” says poor Mrs. Daulkes dabbing her eyes and gulping. “If only it ’ad been last week I could ’ave gone quite easy, because Jim’s sister was ’ere and she’d ’ave looked after things, and last week there wasn’t the Institute Concert. Last week would ’ave been easy. But there. Dad always was inconsid’rate.”
This seems a little unreasonable to me and I make the mistake of saying so, but Mrs. Daulkes does not listen.
“Last week would ’ave been easy,” she repeats. “Last week I could ’ave gone. Elsie’s young but she’s got ’er ’ead screwed on all right and she’d ’ave seen to things for me. She’s quite good with Eric, too—Eric’s my youngest and it isn’t everybody can manage ’im—I could ’ave gone without any bother if it ’ad been last week.”
This line of thought seems unproductive and time is passing. Mrs. Daulkes will need all her time if she is going to London by the twelve o’clock bus and, as I can be no help to her without knowing a little more about the matter, I endeavour to find out from Mrs. Daulkes what news the telegram contained; whether her father is in hospital or, if still at home, whether he has anyone to look after him.
“Mother’s there of course,” says Mrs. Daulkes in surprise. “It was Mother that sent for me and if I know anything about Mother she wouldn’t let me do a ’and’s turn if I did go.”
“But you feel it your duty to go?” I enquire.
Mrs. Daulkes considers the matter and after a few moments she replies that it’s her duty to go and it’s her duty to stay. She promised to obey Jim when she married him and the Bible says you should honour your father and your mother so what are you to do? And the last time she left home—the time Mother had her bad leg—Jim gave himself a sick attack eating things out of tins—things like crab which she doesn’t hold with—and he left it in the tin for days, which is a thing you should never do, but always turn it into a glass jar with a cover. And the children were out all hours at night and stupid at their lessons next morning—Miss Carlyle said so—and if someone would tell her which is right she would do it straight off, but to be in two places at once is a thing she cannot do.
I can see Mrs. Daulkes wishes me to be arbiter in the matter but I am unwilling to advise her. All I can do is to supply her with a clean handkerchief and make her some tea—and, as I can never resist a newly made cup of tea, I sit down and have it with her. These ministrations revive Mrs. Daulkes. She begins to talk more coherently and to press me for my advice. At last I tell her I think she should go, for this is my considered opinion; not because I know much about the matter (Mrs. Daulkes, though she has talked a great deal about it, has failed to make it clear) but because her departure would inconvenience me considerably and therefore I cannot help feeling it would be the Right Thing. The Right Thing is usually the uncomfortable thing—or so I have found.
Mrs. Daulkes does not subscribe to my Edwardian viewpoint. She says why should it be the Right Thing just because you don’t want to do it? There’s all sorts of things she doesn’t want to do which wouldn’t be the Right Thing at all. And, becoming incoherent again in her excitement, she adds that Alice Seager can do it for all she cares but if the children were out till all hours—like they were before—and got run over by a bus—which they well might be—or if Jim poisoned himself, or them, she wouldn’t never forgive herself if she lived to be a hundred which isn’t likely with all the worries. It was all mouldy on the top, so no wonder he was sick and the only mercy was he didn’t give it to the children.
It is now obvious that Mrs. Daulkes has decided not to go, so I suggest we should send a telegram to her mother, pointing out her difficulties and asking for further information. This seems good to her, so together we concoct a suitable message and I despatch it by telephone.
Mrs. Daulkes says she doesn’t know how to thank me and it just shows what a mistake it is to have a Labour Government—a conclusion which puzzles me considerably. I am also considerably puzzled by the fact that she is completely satisfied; the burden drops from her back as if by magic and she worries no more.
How lucky to be Mrs. Daulkes! If I were in her shoes I should still be worrying, still wondering if I had done the Right Thing.
Now that the matter is settled Mrs. Daulkes starts her usual morning’s work at top speed to make up for lost time and The Small House seems to be in the throes of a hurricane.
She is here, there and everywhere; at one moment clattering pans in the kitchen, the next moment dusting the drawing room and a few moments later polishing the bathroom taps.
The hurricane is at its height when a large, shining car drives up to the gate and Tony Morley gets out of it and comes up the path.
“Hullo!” he says cheerfully. “I got home last night so I thought I’d come over. How are you getting on?”
It is a delightful surprise to see Tony; I lead him into the dining room—which is the only room available at the moment—and we sit down and talk.
Presently Tony says, “What on earth is happening overhead? It sounds like furniture movers.”
“It’s only Mrs. Daulkes,” I reply.
“And is that Mrs. Daulkes singing?”
I listen and reply that it is. Mrs. Daulkes is singing while she works and her song is “The Holy City” which she is to render as a solo at the Women’s Institute Concert on Thursday.
“It’s a good voice,” says Tony. “Untrained of course but also unstrained. She sounds very happy, doesn’t she?”
“Yes,” I rep
ly—for although “The Holy City” is not exactly a cheerful song in itself there is a sort of buoyancy in the voice which reminds one of a blackbird in spring.
“You seem surprised, Hester. Why shouldn’t the woman be happy on a lovely sunshiny morning?”
This question is not a rhetorical one. Tony wants an answer and, as he is the sort of person who, like myself, is deeply interested in the affairs of his fellows, I tell him the whole story. I even tell him Mrs. Daulkes’s reference to the Labour Government and how it has puzzled me.
“Puzzled you?” says Tony smiling. “The reference is as clear as crystal. No, I’m not going to explain.”
“I suppose I’m stupid!”
“Not stupid,” he replies kindly. “I should describe you as an intelligent woman, but you have your blind spots.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I know,” he says, nodding. “You don’t know what I mean and you never will—at least I hope not. As things are it would certainly be a thousand pities if the blind spot disappeared.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” I tell him.
“Sometimes there’s quite a lot of sense in nonsense,” replies Tony. “Now run along and put on your shoes, I’m taking you out for a drive.”
“But, Tony—”
“We’ll go to Wandlebury,” says Tony. “I’ve got to see a man about a dog and, while I’m trying out its bark, you can do some shopping. Don’t tell me you haven’t any shopping to do because I shan’t believe you. We’ll have lunch at a nice old Inn called the Apollo and Boot and I’ll bring you home to tea.”
The expedition sounds delightful—and of course I have shopping to do—but I am obliged to refuse. I have promised Mrs. Daulkes to stay at home and receive the reply to the telegram and Mrs. Daulkes is to send her elder daughter when she gets home from school to get the message.
“You really are!” exclaims Tony—but what I really am he does not say.
“I can’t help it,” I tell him. “Of course I’d like to come, but I can’t.”
“Saturday then,” says Tony. “Only it will have to be the afternoon. I’ll look in at tea-time and we’ll nip over to Wandlebury afterwards.”
This suits me admirably and the matter is arranged.
The large, shiny car is standing outside the gate.
“Nice, isn’t he?” says Tony. “I got him the other day. I’m thinking of calling him Belshazzar.”
“Why?” I enquire.
“Why not?” asks Tony.
“I thought cars were usually feminine, that’s all.”
“Some are and some aren’t,” replies Tony gravely. “This one is definitely masculine—he goes like smoke.”
Tony has always been fond of large, powerful cars; he drives fast but extremely well and although I am not particularly keen on speed I enjoy being driven by Tony. I remember a golden sunshiny day in the Highlands when we went across wild moors; over hills and past forests and lochs to a little bay at the edge of the Western Sea. I remember another day when we went to Inverness and had various strange adventures on the way. I remember a silver day when we took the beautiful road which runs in curves down the valley of Tweed.
Tony remembers too. “They were good days,” he agrees. “But we’ll have other days as good.” He gets into the car and shuts the door. “This road is the end,” he declares. “I never saw such a road. Can I get round or must I back over those ghastly bumps?”
“You must back,” I tell him. “The road finishes abruptly twenty yards past this gate, and there’s no room to turn a donkey cart, far less Belshazzar. That’s why The Small House is so nice and quiet. If you go very slowly the bumps won’t break your springs.”
“Absolutely heartless!” declares Tony and backs his car carefully down the road.
The telegram from Mrs. Daulkes’s mother arrives in the afternoon. It comes by telephone as arranged and it is so cryptic that I have a good deal of trouble taking it down; fortunately the telephone girl is patient with my stupidity and spells out the message word by word. When the message is complete it runs as follows: THOUGHT ELSIE WAS THERE OR WOULDN’T HAVE ASKED MOTHER.
At first I am completely puzzled as to what it means, but after careful thought I begin to see light. Elsie is the sister-in-law who was here last week. So far so good, but “wouldn’t have asked mother” is still a problem. I read it again, trying a comma in various places, and at last I hit on the solution. Mother is the signature of the sender, of course, and if she had known that Miss Elsie Daulkes had left Old Quinings she would not have asked her daughter to come.
If I have read aright the news is reassuring; Mrs. Daulkes will be able to remain at Old Quinings and carry out her duties to her family with an easy mind.
Saturday, 14th July
Mrs. Alston drops in to ask if I know of a dressmaker in Old Quinings, someone who could alter a frock.
“All my things are too short,” says Mrs. Alston. “That’s the worst of going abroad. You come home and find everyone is wearing their things longer or shorter and you feel a freak.”
This is perfectly true—as I know to my cost—so I sympathise with Mrs. Alston and tell her about Miss Phipps and explain as best I can how to find the way to her dwelling-place.
“Don’t worry,” says Mrs. Alston. “I’ll find it all right. I’m used to finding my way about in all sorts of places.”
Having received the information for which she has come Mrs. Alston does not take her departure, but sits down and says in a melancholy voice that she had no idea Old Quinings would be so dull. There is nothing to do, says Mrs. Alston, absolutely nothing—not even a picture house—and of course Edmond is hard at work all the time. Even at meals Edmond is not very lively company (he can’t help it, of course, because his mind is on his work). She tries to take Edmond for a short walk every day but he never seems to want to go. Quite often she finds he has gone out by himself before breakfast without telling her. She thinks it’s a little unkind of Edmond when he knows perfectly well she has given up all her plans to come here with him. She doesn’t see why he couldn’t arrange his hours of work so that he could go out with her at a reasonable time. It wouldn’t be so bad if there was anybody else to talk to—anybody staying at the Bull and Bush—but people come and go so quickly that there’s no opportunity of getting to know them. The only residents are two elderly ladies; but one of them is deaf and the other reads all the time so she can’t make any headway with them. She knows nobody in Old Quinings—nobody except Miss Crease who is a horrible old creature and (in Mrs. Alston’s opinion) not quite all there. Mrs. Alston went to see her yesterday and she was ill in bed but insisted on Mrs. Alston going up to her bedroom and talking to her. The room was terribly hot and stuffy—I have no idea how hot and stuffy it was—and Miss Crease was absolutely repulsive, all wrapped up in shawls and looking exactly like a witch. She kept on asking questions about everything and everybody all the time, so it was impossible for Mrs. Alston to get up and come away without being definitely rude . . . in fact the only way Mrs. Alston could escape was by promising to go back today after tea, so she supposes she will have to.
“Why should you go and see her if you don’t want to?” I enquire.
“Oh, because,” says Mrs. Alston, “because—well, as a matter of fact it’s better to keep on her right side. She’s so—so horrible. You never know what she might say if she got her knife into you.” Mrs. Alston pauses for a moment and sighs. “It’s so awfully dull,” she says. “I wish to goodness we had stayed on at Esher and then gone to Cheltenham as we arranged. Of course it’s too late now. I’ve written and put off all our visits and people hate you to keep on changing your plans.”
I feel slightly annoyed with Mrs. Alston and find it difficult to show any sympathy with her in her plight.
“Of course it isn’t your fault,” adds Mrs. Alston magnanimously.
Perhaps this should mollify my feeling of annoyance but it does not; in fact it has the opposite effe
ct and I decide it is a great mistake to try to help people by interfering in their affairs. But even as I make this decision I am aware that it is useless and that I shall go on interfering in people’s affairs until I die or become too old to care.
Time is passing and Mrs. Alston remains seated in her chair. I am particularly anxious for her to go away for I am expecting Tony—this being the appointed day for our expedition to Wandlebury—and, all things considered, I feel it would be a mistake for them to meet. But Mrs. Alston shows no signs of going away and at last I am obliged to ask her to stay to tea.
“Yes, I should like to,” replies Mrs. Alston tepidly. “I don’t suppose Edmond will notice whether I’m there or not. I’ll have tea here and then go in and see Miss Crease as I promised. It’s rather sickening to think of what a good time I should be having if I hadn’t altered all my arrangements.”
She is still talking in this plaintive manner when my other guest appears upon the scene. My worst fears are realised. Tony is annoyed at finding Mrs. Alston here and takes a dislike to her. He refuses to recognise her as a one-time dancing partner and suggests she must have mistaken him for his cousin who resembles him closely.
Mrs. Alston says, “Oh no, it was you. Of course I was Rosa Burton in those days.” (But even this seems to ring no bell in Tony’s memory.) “I remember a dance at Charters Towers,” continues Mrs. Alston. “It was very gay and there were fireworks on the terrace.”
Tony says he hopes she enjoyed it.
“Oh yes, of course,” says Mrs. Alston without enthusiasm.
A short silence ensues. I plunge into this silence with a futile remark about the weather. We agree that the weather has been fine and dry. Tony says unless there is rain soon people will have to start watering their gardens. Mrs. Alston says she has no garden so she would prefer the dry weather to continue. Her statement ends the unprofitable subject. Tony asks whether Mrs. Alston has been to the Lion’s Gorge and, on hearing that she knows nothing about it, he explains that it is very pretty indeed and she ought to go. The Lion’s Gorge is the source of a little river which bursts out of a cliff and cascades between rocks. There are ferns and trees and the ruined remains of an old mill which used to grind corn for all the farms in the district.
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