God bless you, my darling.
Your very loving,
FATHER.”
“DARLING SUSANNA,
Well done! I am so glad your book is a success. Did Baruch really write any of it? I can’t help feeling an unholy glee that it’s you who has written it and not Judith. You and I have always been the stupid ones and it’s grand to think you have done something she would give her ears to have done. Her Perdita gets prettier every day, but shows no sign of brains. She has stopped learning the piano because they have discovered she is tone-deaf. It’s too early yet to say how her boy will turn out, and she is not going to stake her future happiness on their brains, but has decided to use her own, and as a start she is going to stand for Parliament. Can’t you see her as a Lady Astor? Tim is an awfully good baby but quite ordinary, which is what George and I like. Come and stay with us sometimes; we have made quite a nice spare bedroom out of the boxroom.
Love and congratulations from us both.
ESTHER.
P.S.—Nanny sends her love.”
DEAR SUSANNA,
Maccabeus and I had to buy your book as you did not send us one—bit mean, aren’t you? I like it. Funny fellow Baruch was. Did he ever hear Pan Pipes, do you know? He never struck me as the sort of person the book shows he must have been, but then I was still a kid when he was killed. I am afraid Maccabeus is going to be a parson; he has gone all pi, his rooms stink of incense, and all he can talk about is Mass, Confession, and vestments. Awful, isn’t it? I have decided to be an architect, for everybody is too poor to employ one, so I should be safe for a life of leisure.
Love,
MANASSES.”
“DEAR SUSANNA,
Thank you for your book; it’s not my kind, too imaginative for me. I like a little realism, but it has brought much distinction on the family, people are always talking to me about it. It was clever of you to pretend Baruch had a hand in it, the twin idea is always popular. I won’t give you away, but it’s comic to hear Baruch, whom one remembers as a sleepy, inky-nosed schoolboy, acclaimed as a genius tragically lost to the world. I feel I ought not to waste any more of my life sitting in the country breeding, so I am going to stand for Parliament. Harry, needless to say, disapproves. I spent a night with Esther recently; don’t go there unless you must, nappies drying in front of the drawing-room fire, and a dreadful air of suburban contentment all over the house.
Both the babies are well.
Love,
JUDITH.”
“DEAR SUSANNA,
Well done! You have probably done something for Baruch he never would have done for himself, and this should make you happy.
Love,
TOBIT.”
P.S.—When you are tired of writing, come and help me prune roses.”
“DEAR SUSANNA,
Your book gave me much food for thought: the end troubled me. Baruch must have been in a curious frame of mind before he died. Had he lost his Faith? I offer prayers at my Mass each morning for the repose of his soul.
Your loving,
MACCABEUS.”
“MY DEAR SUSANNA,
I am a very proud woman. Your book is delightfully written and reflects the utmost credit on your gift for words and Baruch’s imagination. It is a sad thing the dear boy cannot be here to share the triumph with you. I trust that you are already at work on a second book; you have an admirable gift, and the pen can be an enormous power in the world, and your wise wielding of it will, I am sure, bring honour to you, and through you, to our sex.
Is it not wonderful news that dear Judith is to stand for Parliament? A mind like hers should prove of inestimable value to the country.
Very much love, my dear child, and many congratulations.
Your affectionate governess,
THEODORA CROSBY.”
Susanna found herself deeply engrossed with her novel. It didn’t flow along easily like her work on Our Land, but was produced with labour, for she had to strain her memory for every bit of gossip she had heard, being incapable of inventing a situation. To help herself she took to reading, not the books carefully selected for her by Angus, which she found dull and quite out of keeping with the style at which she was aiming, but books selected by herself from a library which she had joined. Mrs. Cary groaned over her taste every time she found one of her books lying about the house.
“Oh lord! Susanna, what rubbish you read.”
“That? It’s a lovely book.”
Mrs. Cary looked through it, and read out loud:
“‘He kissed her full on the lips, and tasted the soft soapiness of her lip salve. “My God!” he breathed. “You exquisite animal!” She recoiled from him, and with a leopard-like spring reached the sofa and stretched herself out on it sensuously, looking up at him through her curling lashes, then she patted the cushions beside her. “Come here, you beautiful savage man!’ ”Really, Susanna! Where do you find this mess?”
“I like it,” Susanna retorted truculently.
She saw a lot of Angus, often lunching with him; sometimes they dined and went on to a theatre or to a dance. Always he made her talk of her home and childhood; it seemed he could never hear enough of the Vicarage and village and the nine children growing up there.
“It’s like a fairy tale to me,” he explained. “I never had any brothers or sisters, and was brought up by a maiden aunt, as my parents were in India. I love to hear about you all. It’s a life I shall never know, for it’s as dead as the Dodo; it died when the first shot was fired in the war.”
One day Susanna came to him with pride.
“My book will be finished next week.”
“Good. Send it along.”
“Will you read it quickly?”
“I’ll do my best. Am I going to like it?”
“I think so. It’s a proper book this time, like you see on bookstalls, and it’s exciting.”
She posted it to him a week later, and after some days he rang her up.
“I’ve read your book. Come and lunch, and we’ll talk about it.”
“Right. I’ll be along about one.”
“No, make it twelve-thirty, then we can get business over before we go out.”
She arrived to find her manuscript lying on his desk, just where she had seen Our Land on her first visit, only this time a cocktail stood on top of it.
“Drink that,” he said. “You’ll need it when you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.”
Susanna sipped her drink.
“Well?”
“Swallow that down.”
“Done.” She put her glass on his table.
“Right. Now sit down.” She sat meekly. He laid his hand on her book. “How dare you write filthy tripe like this!”
“Tripe? I thought it was a lovely book. I thought you’d like it.”
He stared at her.
“Good God! I believe you’re speaking the truth. But, my good girl, can’t you see how bloody awful it is? It’s muck, and not even sellable muck, a horrible hotchpotch of legs, breasts, beds, drugs, and drink!”
“Oh!”
“I’m sorry to be rude, but really I can’t be anything else.”
“That’s quite all right. I only wrote it because you asked me to. I’m sorry you don’t like it.”
“Don’t like it!” He dropped his head in his hands. “She brings me tripe, and says, ‘I’m sorry you don’t like it.’ Oh, Sukey, Sukey, that from you who have a natural gift for words.”
She neither understood nor cared what he meant, for he had called her Sukey and he was miserable.
“Don’t mind about it, I’ll tear it up.”
He raised his head and watched her, spellbound, as she casually tore her manuscript to bits and put it in his paperbasket.
“Is that your only copy?” he asked.
“And you’ve torn it up.”
“No good keeping it if you don’t like it.”
He shook his head, marvelling, then got up and laid his hand gently across her shoulders.
“Come along, old lady, let’s go and have some lunch.”
They didn’t talk of her book while they ate, but when they reached the coffee, he leaned over the table to her.
“Now, my dear, you are going home to pack.”
“Pack! Why?”
“Because you are going away.”
“Where?”
“Back to the Vicarage.”
“Oh no, I’m not.”
“Oh yes, you are. Listen to me. I’ve seen for some time a book you ought to write. Letting you write a novel was a mistake, it’s off your beat, but you could and shall write of your childhood, and you’re going home to do it.”
“I won’t go home.”
“You will, Sukey. You are going home to lay your ghosts once and for always. I know what’s been happening to you. Ever since Baruch was killed you’ve been running away from him, hoping to block out his memory. Something pulled you up and made you produce his book, but you are still running, and judging by your novel, some of your running has taken you into funny places. Now you are going to stop running and stand still and face whatever it is haunts you, and you’ll find there’s nothing there. Then with a freed soul you can sit down and write about those first fourteen years of yours which led up to the war. Try and write about it just as you talk about it to me. As you’ve talked it has always sounded an idyll of childhood, catch even something of that on paper. Do try, Sukey, I’m sure you could.”
Susanna was moved. Should she go home? She had nothing now to fear; everyone was proud of Baruch and she knew there was nothing for her to feel ashamed of. People like him were allowed to be different. She could even face the names on the War Memorial.
“I’ll go home for a bit if you like, but I don’t think we’d make a book. I can only remember how things happened, not how we felt.”
“It will come back to you.”
“Will it?” She looked at him wistfully. “If I try and write it, shall I bring it up to show you now and then?”
“No. I shall come down and see it. Once you get home, you must stay there till it’s finished.”
“When will you come?”
“Whenever I’m asked.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Catherine and Susanna looked out of the dining-room window. The leaves were off the trees and the last of them had blown into a heap under the monkey-puzzle. The holly tree at the end of the garden was a mass of scarlet berries.
Catherine shivered.
“How cold it looks! Fancy, almost Christmas again, but I shall have four of you at home this year; we shall be quite gay.”
“I shouldn’t think we’d see much of Maccabeus; from all accounts he will spend most of his time in church.”
“Yes, dear man, he’s got it badly, but I dare say it will wear off. I only hope he doesn’t upset your father. Apparently we’ve always done everything wrong in the church, and your father does hate learning at his age.”
“Such a nerve, teaching anybody as old as Daddy.”
“Old! Funny. Do you know, I never actually thought of us as old before, but I suppose we are getting on that way; and yet, you know, inside I don’t feel a day older than I did when I was married, only ever so much wiser. Each year I see more clearly how few things really matter. Yet it’s not so very long ago that I was fussed to death because I thought my life was being wasted in a little country village. So silly of me.”
“I expect it was.”
“Oh no, darling, producing all of you has been enough adventure for one woman, watching you all grow up terribly exciting really. I can’t understand how I ever thought the South of France would be more fun, and yet I did. I went there every year for a time; it must have been the mimosa and freesias which tempted me, and your Great-great-aunt Selina’s money.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Terribly at the time; now I’m sorry I wasted those months away from the boys. I never would have if I’d known the war was coming, but I dare say it’s a good thing I didn’t; it would be awful if we could see what was coming, wouldn’t it?”
“Poor Mummy.”
“No, not ‘poor Mummy’ at all. Taking it all in all, I’ve had a lovely time, and now that you are all away such little things please me: the first lilac, and Daddy not getting his usual winter cough, and a nice book over a big fire; hundreds of things.”
“Do you remember us clearly when we were little?”
“Remember! It’s all as clear as if it were today.”
“I wish it was to me. I’m going to start my book this morning, and though I can remember the things we did, I can’t remember how we felt. Angus says it will come back.”
“So it will.”
“He says it’s going to be interesting because the life we lived as children doesn’t exist any more; it died in the war.”
“Does he! Bless me, he’d better come and stay at once. I never heard such rubbish; it takes more than a European war to change life in country parishes. Tell your Angus to come and see for himself.”
“May I? I’d like to.”
“Do, then.” Catherine’s eyes rested lovingly on the back of her daughter’s head. “Where are you going to begin your story?”
“Christmas. It’s the first thing I remember.”
“Hanging up your socks? And the parcels? And turkey and plum-pudding? What an excitement it all was!”
“And the carols with Nannie on Christmas afternoon.”
“And the Christmas tree, and singing ‘The First Noel.’”
“And ‘Sir Roger de Coverley,’ Daddy dancing with Nannie.”
“And the house decorated with holly and paper rings.”
“Paper rings!” Susanna sat down at the table and pulled the blank sheets of foolscap towards her. “Paper rings! Making them before Christmas, all the bright colours, and one’s fingers stiff with paste. I remember, oh, how clearly I remember! If only I could go back and remember how we felt.” She sprawled across the table, her chin in her hands.
The dining-room door opened cautiously, and the head and shoulders of the youngest Miss Love were poked in.
“Oh, Mrs. Churston, I’m so sorry to disturb you and Susanna, but do you think one dozen of the large loaves and half a dozen of the small ones will be sufficient for the Sunday School Treat?”
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Noel Streatfeild
Mary Noel Streatfeild was born in Sussex in 1895. She was one of five children born to the Anglican Bishop of Lewes and found vicarage life very restricting. During World War One, Noel and her siblings volunteered in hospital kitchens and put on plays to support war charities, which is where she discovered her talent on stage. She studied at RADA to pursue a career in the theatre and after ten years as an actress turned her attention to writing adult and children’s fiction. Her experiences in the arts heavily influenced her writing, most notably her famous children’s story Ballet Shoes which won a Carnegie Medal and was awarded an OBE in 1983. Noel Streatfeild died in 1986.
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First published 1932 by William Heinemann
This edition first published 2018 by Bello
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Copyright © Noel Streatfeild 1932
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