Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—there is no chance of trying out the desperate expedient for when I emerge from the dining room Miss Stroude is coming downstairs.
“I can’t find it,” complains Miss Stroude. “I’ve looked through two boxes and I haven’t time to do more today. You haven’t seen it, I suppose? It’s a grey cardboard folder with some letters in it.”
I reply that I have not seen it.
“Valuable letters,” says Miss Stroude. “There’s a letter from Lord Byron to Mrs. Stroude’s grandfather—and several others. It’s most annoying. I particularly wanted the Byron letter because I know somebody who would buy it. Are you sure you haven’t seen the folder anywhere?”
The question is asked in such a disagreeable way that it makes me angry and I reply that I have not looked through Miss Stroude’s private papers.
“I know that,” she replies. “The boxes are locked; but my step-mother was very careless and the folder might have been lying about anywhere. Of course she ought to have had the letters framed or put them in the safe. I’ve told her so, often.”
Miss Stroude is putting on her gloves as she speaks.
“Don’t go, Miss Stroude,” I say impulsively.
She looks at me in surprise.
“You must be tired,” I suggest. “Perhaps you would like a glass of sherry and a biscuit.”
“I never drink wine,” she replies, moving towards the door.
“Do come and sit down for a few minutes.”
“I am going to lunch with some friends,” says Miss Stroude firmly. “I shall come back another day and look through the other boxes. You have no objection I suppose?”
“No, but—but I want to show you something.”
“What?” she asks, fixing me with a baleful stare.
“It’s—it’s the shelf in the pantry.”
“What about the shelf?”
“Would you mind looking at it?” I enquire.
Obviously she minds a good deal but she has no option in the matter. I conduct her to the pantry and indicate the shelf.
“You see, it’s loose,” I explain, moving it up and down to prove my point.
Miss Stroude examines the shelf and says she can see nothing whatever the matter with it (which, as a matter of fact, is not surprising). “The shelf is meant to be loose,” explains Miss Stroude. “The idea is you can take it out and wash it.”
“What a clever idea!” I exclaim.
Miss Stroude looks at me with a curious expression upon her disagreeable countenance. I can see she thinks I am unfit to be loose. She has taken off her gloves to examine the shelf but now resumes them in a determined manner.
“You ought to do something about the dining-room table,” I tell her earnestly. “It’s wood-worm, I think.”
“Wood-worm?”
“Yes—and it might spread to the other furniture if it isn’t taken in time. We had a furnished house some years ago and all the furniture was riddled with wood-worm. It just fell to pieces, bit by bit.”
This tragic story happens to be perfectly true but Miss Stroude is unmoved by it. She makes for the door, saying that she will have the furniture examined by a competent person when she regains possession of her house. I pursue her making various suggestions to delay her departure: would she like to wash her hands after groping about in the dusty attic? Would she like a few flowers from the garden? Miss Stroude does not bother to reply. She marches down the path, opens the door of her car and gets in.
“Miss Stroude,” I cry, following and laying my hand on the door. “Miss Stroude, don’t go.”
“Mrs. Christie,” says Miss Stroude. “I don’t know what the idea is. Either you are trying to make a fool of me or else you are an extremely stupid woman, but it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that you vacate my house by mid-day on the first of August.”
This pronouncement is merited so I cannot really complain, and I am so crushed and confused that I can say nothing in self-defence, nor can I think of any other delaying action. Miss Stroude starts up her engine and lets in her clutch.
At this moment a large shiny car approaches rapidly over the bumpy road and draws up close behind her. The road (as has been said before) is narrow and has no turning so the arrival of the newcomer blocks Miss Stroude’s exit. She looks round in annoyance, and signals with her hand.
Tony immediately gets out of his car and approaches. “You must be Miss Stroude, I think,” he says with a friendly smile. “My name is Morley. I was hoping to see you this morning.”
“Please move your car so that I can back,” says Miss Stroude.
“You aren’t going away!”
“Please move your car, Mr. Morley.”
“Presently,” replies Tony cheerfully. “All in good time. There’s no hurry, is there?”
“I am in a hurry,” replies Miss Stroude.
“But before you go I want to speak to you. I should like to understand what arrangements have been made about the house.”
“I have explained everything to Mrs. Christie.”
“Please explain everything to me,” says Tony politely.
During this exchange I have remained dumb, for I am aware that when Tony takes charge it is better not to interfere, but now I feel that I can make a small contribution to define the situation.
“Miss Stroude wants us to move out of her house on the first of August,” I explain. “It’s very inconvenient but it can’t be helped.”
“What about the lease?” asks Tony, looking puzzled.
“All this is no business of yours,” declares Miss Stroude. “The matter is between Mrs. Christie and me. I have told her she must move and I have arranged everything with her. I don’t know who you are nor why you imagine you can interfere in the matter. I suppose I have the right to live in my own house if I want to?”
“Not if you have let it to someone else,” says Tony.
Miss Stroude looks at him down her long nose and Tony looks back at her.
“I suppose there is a legal contract, isn’t there?” enquires Tony sweetly.
These innocent words are like a beam of light in a dark cellar . . . for of course there is a contract, an extremely imposing document made by Miss Stroude’s own lawyer and signed by Fred Bollings on my behalf. The document is inscribed upon thick white paper, tied with pink tape, and contains all sorts of alarming and bewildering phrases such as “the party hereinafter mentioned” and “the lessee shall hold herself responsible . . .” This document was handed to me by Fred Bollings on my arrival and, after reading it through, I returned it to him and it was stowed away in his safe at the Bull and Bush. I have every reason to believe the document is still there amongst various other papers and valuables belonging to my two good friends.
My feelings are such a mixture of relief and rage and shame that I feel quite faint and am unable to follow the remainder of the conversation between Tony and Miss Stroude; in fact I do not come to myself until the two cars have manoeuvred successfully and Miss Stroude’s Morris is disappearing round the corner.
“Aren’t you a little goat!” says Tony, taking my arm and walking me up the path.
I agree humbly that I am.
“I suppose there is a proper lease?”
“Yes, there is.”
“I had to take a chance on that, but the moment I mentioned the word she crumpled up and there was no more spirit left in her—just like the Queen of Sheba.”
“Do you think she had forgotten about the lease?”
“Goodness no, she’s much too cute. Miss Stroude wasn’t born yesterday. She was just trying to bounce you.”
“She did bounce me,” I reply. “I’m so angry about it—angry with her and angry with myself for being such a fool—that I feel quite ill. What do you think will happen now?”
“Nothing will happen,” says Tony confidently. “You will stay on at The Small House until your lease is up. If she tries any more tricks we’ll consult a lawyer, but she w
on’t. You needn’t worry.”
Mrs. Daulkes greets us with beaming smiles and it is obvious that, once again, her domestic duties have not interfered with her pleasures.
“That Miss Stroude, with ’er long nose!” exclaims Mrs. Daulkes.
“Yes, her nose is a misfortune,” agrees Tony.
“Ugly as a root,” declares Mrs. Daulkes. “I said it once and I’ll say it again. That’s what she is—ugly—inside and out.”
“‘What I tell you three times is true,’” murmurs Tony, quoting from a well-known classic.
“But you were a match for ’er,” says Mrs. Daulkes admiringly. “I knew you’d send ’er packing. I said as much to Mrs. Christie. You telephone to the General, I said. It takes a gentleman to deal with that sort, I said. You telephone straight off.”
“Your advice was sound,” Tony assures her gravely.
“Lor!” exclaims Mrs. Daulkes, chuckling. “I never was so pleased as when I saw ’er go off with ’er tail between ’er legs!”
Saturday, 21st July
Mrs. Daulkes brings Eric with her this morning because the lady who lives next door (and who usually minds Eric while her neighbour is at work) has had to go to Wandlebury to the dentist. I have heard a great deal about Eric who, according to his mother, is unusually intelligent and extremely amusing and altogether quite different in every way from other children of two and a half years old, so naturally I am looking forward to making his acquaintance.
Eric is a large child, ludicrously like his mother in appearance; his complexion is red and brown and he has the same coarse, springy hair which stands up all over his head. He is neatly dressed in a blue and white check shirt and brown corduroy shorts, white socks and brown sandals.
“This is Eric,” says Mrs. Daulkes, pushing her youngest forward to be admired. “Now Eric, remember what I told you. Say, ‘’Ow d’you do, Mrs. Christie,’ like a good boy.”
Eric looks up at me gravely with two large brown eyes and says something—a much longer peroration than that indicated by his parent but absolutely unintelligible to me.
“Don’t ’e speak clear!” exclaims his mother proudly.
The honest answer to this enquiry would be yes and no. Eric certainly speaks in ringing tones; he opens his mouth and enunciates the sounds he utters with exaggerated movements of his lips and tongue. One feels one ought to be able to understand every word.
“Thag moo wa, effy ammy dee,” says Eric clearly.
Mrs. Daulkes smiles fondly at her offspring. “Eric’s not a bit shy,” she declares. “’E’ll speak to anyone. The others never would say a word to nobody when they were little. I was telling Jim about—”
“Ammy oo!” exclaims Eric with spirit. “Um ya oo tocky effy bim, thag wim foo!”
“Oh, Lor’, isn’t ’e a scream!” cries Mrs. Daulkes laughing heartily.
I laugh too; partly because it is obviously the right reaction and partly because I am genuinely amused. Eric’s speech is like the “baby talk” of a well-known infant who does his stuff on the radio and whose remarks are interpreted by his elder sister. It is a little unfortunate that Eric has no such interpreter but it can’t be helped. I feel it would wound Mrs. Daulkes if I asked for an interpretation of her son’s remarks.
“Ya oo,” observes Eric, looking up with large innocent eyes. “Effy wa olly bim tocky thag?”
“No, you can’t, then,” says Mrs. Daulkes firmly.
“Gammy ya ug. Tecky lum wimmy oy!”
“Now that’s enough,” says Mrs. Daulkes. “There’s a limit. I’m sure I don’t know what Mrs. Christie will think if you go on like that.”
“Mee ug ya tocky foo wa ya!” replies her son defiantly.
“Now, Eric,” says Mrs. Daulkes. “What did I tell you? I told you if I brought you to The Small ’Ouse you was to be’ave yourself proper. If I ’ave any more of your lip I’ll take you straight ’ome—you see if I don’t.”
“Tammy goth!” objects Eric in no way cast down by his mother’s threat. “Oo ga effy tocky thee wa tig moddy boo.”
“Eric!”
“Gammy og, tag oddy bee thag woo.”
“All right then, but I’ve got to get on,” says Mrs. Daulkes nodding. “You’re going to be good, aren’t you?” And seizing him up with a swing of her strong arms she dumps him into the basket-chair which stands near the kitchen window. “You can sit there and watch me wash up the breakfast dishes,” she adds.
“Goo wa dee effy thag—ammy boo.”
“I daresay, but you’ll do as you’re told. Mrs. Christie doesn’t want you running all over the ’ouse and p’raps falling down the stairs. You sit there and talk to me like a good boy.”
I leave them chatting happily and go upstairs to make my bed.
After a few minutes Mrs. Daulkes comes after me and says a young man has called and wants to see me.
“A young man?”
“A well set-up young feller,” declares Mrs. Daulkes. “A bit pale ’e is; int’resting-looking (if you know what I mean), dark wavy ’air and brown eyes—and very nicely spoken. Quite the gentleman, ’e is. I mean ’e’s not selling brushes nor nothing.”
I can think of no young man of my acquaintance answering to this description.
“There now, I should ’ave asked ’is name,” says Mrs. Daulkes penitently. “I never thought of it. I’ll go and ask ’im.”
But somehow I feel it is too late to remedy the omission, so I leave my bed half-made and go downstairs myself.
The young man is a complete stranger; he conforms in all ways to Mrs. Daulkes’s description and although his clothes are a trifle shabby he is definitely “quite the gentleman.”
When I go in he is standing at the window, looking out into the garden; but he turns at once and, smiling rather shyly, says he hopes I will forgive such an early call. “I wanted to thank you for all the trouble you’ve taken,” he explains.
The most sensible thing to do would be to ask him who he is, but I have a vague feeling I have seen him before and ought to know him, so I let the moment pass. Sooner or later he is sure to say something which will clear up the mystery of his identity.
“This is a delightful house,” says my visitor. “I do love these big windows. I wish we could find a house of our own and settle down comfortably, but they’re very difficult to find.”
“Very difficult,” I reply.
By this time we are sitting down; he has chosen to sit upon the cretonne-covered window-seat and he sits sideways so that he can see the garden. Abijah Rannish is mowing the lawn and this gives us a subject of conversation. We discuss Abijah and I detail his peculiarities to my guest. I tell him about the beauties of the kitchen garden and about the peach trees trained like ballet dancers against the soft pink brick of the south wall and my guest listens intelligently and understands exactly what I mean in a most satisfactory way. All this is pleasant and agreeable, but it is getting me no further and I realise I have been a fool. It is far too late now to ask the young man his name.
“Oh!” he exclaims, his eye lighting upon the copy of Doctor Thorne which is lying upon the little table beside him. “Oh, what a beautiful edition! May I look at it?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Is it yours?” he asks, taking it up in his long slender hands and opening it.
“I wish it were,” I reply. “It belongs to Mrs. Stroude—or rather it used to belong to her—but I don’t think she would mind my reading it.”
“Books are meant to be read. They like being read,” says my visitor seriously. “I always feel sorry for books that are too valuable to be read—books with uncut pages. I’m sure they would rather be just ordinary so that ordinary people could read them.”
This is my own feeling exactly and I tell him so. I tell him also that I am renewing an old friendship with Doctor Thorne and enjoying the experience.
“You like it better than before?” he enquires.
“Yes, it seems better when you read the story in a
nice old-fashioned book with good thick paper and large clear print . . . and look at the pictures! Aren’t they entrancing? Look at this one of Frank and Miss Dunstable having fun together and Lady de Courcy looking on disapprovingly! And here’s one of Mr. Gazebee proposing to the Lady Augusta in a delicate manner!”
We look at the pictures together; we discuss the plot. I discover that, although I have read the novel several times and am in the midst of reading it again, my visitor knows a great deal more about it than I. He talks about it with authority and insight and is especially interesting upon the subject of Doctor Thorne. In fact he talks about the doctor as though he were a real person, known and loved and admired. Doctor Thorne is an old-fashioned practitioner but he has the right ideas. My new friend’s ambition is to be the modern counterpart of Doctor Thorne with all the new and exciting discoveries of science to help him.
“Specialisation is all very well,” says my new friend earnestly. “Of course we must have specialists, but the first symptoms of disease are difficult to diagnose and unless they can be diagnosed early there is much less hope of a cure. This means we must have enough doctors with a broad knowledge of medicine . . .” He stops suddenly and laughs. “I get all worked up when I talk about it,” he says apologetically. “The fact is it’s all so interesting and exciting to me that I can’t help feeling it must be interesting to other people. Medicine is an adventure, it’s a fight against the dragon of disease. Do you know Tenniel’s picture of the boy fighting the Jabberwock?”
“Of course I do! ‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!’”
“That’s it!” cries the modern knight-errant, half-laughing and half-serious. “That’s how I see the modern doctor.”
Fortunately there is a copy of Alice in Mrs. Stroude’s book-case. We find the picture and together we chant the inimitable verses:
“One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.”
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” cries my new friend delightedly. “Gorgeous stuff! Wait till I get my vorpal blade sharpened—then off to the tulgey wood—and let the Jabberwock beware!”
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