‘Linda,’ I said, furiously, ‘you’ve made it up.’ But I knew she couldn’t have.
Linda brought a piece of paper out of her pocket. It was a half-sheet of writing-paper, evidently the end of a letter, covered with Aunt Emily’s large babyish handwriting, and I looked over Linda’s shoulder as she read it out:
‘… not tell the children we’re engaged, what d’you think darling, just at first? But then suppose Fanny takes a dislike to him, though I don’t see how she could, but children are so funny, won’t it be more of a shock? Oh, dear, I can’t decide. Anyway, do what you think best, darling, we’ll arrive on Thursday, and I’ll telephone on Wednesday evening and see what’s happened. All love from Emily.’
Sensation in the Hons’ cupboard.
3
‘But why?’ I said, for the hundredth time.
Linda, Louisa, and I were packed into Louisa’s bed, with Bob sitting on the end of it, chatting in whispers. These midnight talks were most strictly forbidden, but it was safer, at Alconleigh, to disobey rules during the early part of the night than at any other time in the twenty-four hours. Uncle Matthew fell asleep practically at the dinner-table. He would then doze in his business-room for an hour or so before dragging himself, in a somnambulist trance, to bed, where he slept the profound sleep of one who has been out of doors all day, until cockcrow the following morning, when he became very much awake. This was the time for his never-ending warfare with the housemaids over wood-ash. The rooms at Alconleigh were heated by wood fires, and Uncle Matthew maintained, rightly, that if these were to function properly, all the ash ought to be left in the fireplaces in a great hot smouldering heap. Every housemaid, however, for some reason (an early training with coal fires probably) was bent on removing this ash altogether. When shakings, imprecations, and being pounced out at by Uncle Matthew in his paisley dressing-gown at 6 a.m., had convinced them that this was not really feasible, they became absolutely determined to remove, by hook or by crook, just a little, a shovelful or so, every morning. I can only suppose they felt that like this they were asserting their personalities.
The result was guerrilla warfare at its most exciting. Housemaids are notoriously early risers, and can usually count upon three clear hours when a house belongs to them alone. But not at Alconleigh. Uncle Matthew was always, winter and summer alike, out of his bed by 5 a.m., and it was then his habit to wander about, looking like Great Agrippa in his dressing-gown, and drinking endless cups of tea out of a thermos flask, until about seven, when he would have his bath. Breakfast for my uncle, my aunt, family, and guests alike, was sharp at eight, and unpunctuality was not tolerated. Uncle Matthew was no respecter of other people’s early morning sleep, and after five o’clock one could not count on any, for he raged round the house, clanking cups of tea, shouting at his dogs, roaring at the housemaids, cracking the stock whips which he had brought back from Canada on the lawn with a noise greater than gunfire, and all to the accompaniment of Galli-Curci on his gramophone, an abnormally loud one, with an enormous horn, through which would be shrieked ‘Una voce poco fà’ – ‘The Mad Song’ from Lucia – ‘Lo, here the gen-tel lar-ha-hark’ – and so on, played at top speed, thus rendering them even higher and more screeching than they ought to be.
Nothing reminds me of my childhood days at Alconleigh so much as those songs. Uncle Matthew played them incessantly for years, until the spell was broken when he went all the way to Liverpool to hear Galli-Curci in person. The disillusionment caused by her appearance was so great that the records remained ever after silent, and were replaced by the deepest bass voices that money could buy.
‘Fearful the death of the diver must be,
Walking alone in the de-he-he-he-he-epths of the sea’ or ‘Drake is going West, lads.’
These were, on the whole, welcomed by the family, as rather less piercing at early dawn.
‘Why should she want to be married?’
‘It’s not as though she could be in love. She’s forty.’
Like all the very young we took it for granted that making love is child’s play.
‘How old do you suppose he is?’
‘Fifty or sixty I guess. Perhaps she thinks it would be nice to be a widow. Weeds, you know.’
‘Perhaps she thinks Fanny ought to have a man’s influence.’
‘Man’s influence!’ said Louisa. ‘I forsee trouble. Supposing he falls in love with Fanny, that’ll be a pretty kettle of fish, like Somerset and Princess Elizabeth – he’ll be playing rough games and pinching you in bed, see if he doesn’t.’
‘Surely not, at his age.’
‘Old men love little girls.’
‘And little boys,’ said Bob.
‘It looks as if Aunt Sadie isn’t going to say anything about it before they come,’ I said.
‘There’s nearly a week to go – she may be deciding. She’ll talk it over with Fa. Might be worth listening next time she has a bath. You can, Bob.’
Christmas Day was spent, as usual at Alconleigh, between alternate bursts of sunshine and showers. I put, as children can, the disturbing news about Aunt Emily out of my mind, and concentrated upon enjoyment. At about six o’clock Linda and I unstuck our sleepy eyes and started on our stockings. Our real presents came later, at breakfast and on the tree, but the stockings were a wonderful hors d’œuvre and full of treasures. Presently Jassy came in and started selling us things out of hers. Jassy only cared about money because she was saving up to run away – she carried her post office book about with her everywhere, and always knew to a farthing what she had got. This was then translated by a miracle of determination as Jassy was very bad at sums, into so
