A London Home in the Nineties

by Hughes, M. V. ;

  Long years ago Arthur had confided to me his secret ambition to get into Parliament. We both knew that our Limited means would forbid it for ages, and probably for ever. Imagine my excitement, therefore, when one evening he came home with the news that he was to fight Lloyd George at the coming election. ‘Mind you,’ said he, ‘there’s not the ghost of a chance that I shall get in.’ ‘Never mind,’ said I, ‘you will have the fight. But why do they trouble to put up a candidate when it’s hopeless?’ ‘Because if there was no opposition, Lloyd George would be free to go about supporting other candidates. It’s worth the money to the party merely to keep him out of action.’

  And a grand time we all had. Arthur was provided with a car and a chauffeur (a luxury in those days) and was driven about the Division at hot speed from one meeting to another. Every morning came a letter from him about hecklings and even escapes from physical attacks, and when the elections began we became very busy at home. We had a large map of England spread out on the table, and whenever a result was published we stuck a little flag in the place—bits of red and blue paper on pins. Moreover, we decorated the mail-cart with flags and made a brave show through the streets of Barnet. Some of our many friends were of the opposite colour, which added piquancy to our encounters. Of course Arthur was defeated, but he had successfully kept Lloyd George on the hop, and this had given him immense satisfaction.

  Not long after this it was my turn to have a jaunt from home. An advertisement of excursions on the Great Western caught my eye. One could go to Penzance and back for fifteen shillings. I had never been in an excursion train in my life, and believed them to be all that was miserable and degrading. Still—only fifteen shillings for a chance to see Cornwall once again, and Tony. I asked Arthur what he thought about it. He immediately wanted me to travel properly by the ordinary train. But I pointed out that I couldn’t leave the boys for more than two nights, and that it would be great fun to see what an excursion was like, and that anyhow I would go like that or not at all. Strange to say, it was the easiest journey to Cornwall I ever had. Arthur saw me off from Paddington at 8 p.m.; there were only two other passengers in my compartment and I went immediately to sleep. ‘Where are we?’ said I when I woke. ‘Newton Abbot,’ was the reply.

  With what rapture I took that early morning walk from Camborne station down to Reskadinnick. Every turn of the road brought to mind some jolly incident of my childhood, some dearly loved person. As I went along the drive, where every tree seemed an old friend, I had again that uncanny feeling of being uncertain that my surroundings were real, or that I had any business there—just as I had felt when alone in New York. The house at last! The same as ever. I went round by the side way, through into the poultry yard, and there by a hen-coop, leaning upon her stick, stood Tony. I stopped, and she looked at me in a dazed way, and then exclaimed, ‘Why! ’tis Molly!’

  When I see cheap excursions advertised on posters I often wonder whether they are going to provide people who are hard up with some such golden opportunity as I had—a chance to see someone whom they will never see again. The bliss of that day to Tony and me is indescribable. I followed her about as I did when a child, helped her with little jobs, or just sat with her and talked. I made her go to bed early and brought up her supper to her.

  ‘Arthur has sent you a little medicine for your rheumatism,’ said I, as I took from my bag a large-size medicine bottle, ‘and it’s got to be taken in hot water, and lemon and sugar may be added. I’ve brought up a kettle and everything.’

  ‘Dear Arthur!’ said she, ‘how good of him, and I feel to want some quite at once.’

  As she sipped it lovingly I told her that it was part of a gift of superb whisky given to Arthur by a grateful client.

  For as far back as I can remember it had been her custom to read a psalm at bed-time. A large-print volume of them lay by her side. Never did she stray into the rosy paths of the New Testament, but found a companion for every mood, from gaiety to black despair, in her ‘royal treasury’ of the Psalms.

  ‘Which one shall I read to you tonight?’ said I, picking up the book.

  ‘Well, it isn’t its turn, dear, but do let’s have the hundred and fourth. I love to think of God feeding all the creatures, the wild asses quenching their thirst and the lions roaring after their prey.’

  ‘I believe you know it by heart,’ said I. She nodded and smiled, and before I had reached the verse about the lions she was peacefully asleep.

  The next morning I had to start very early, but she was up to give me breakfast, and my last memory of her is that brave figure, crippled by age and rheumatism, standing in the garden to wave a last farewell to me as I turned the bend into the drive.

  On my reaching home, I found that the boys had had a good time in the servant’s care, and that Arthur had been adequately fed. When I recounted my unnecessary anxiety to Mrs. Macbeth, a neighbour with boys of her own, she told me how she had learnt not to worry: ‘When Ronald was four years old I had to go to town for the day, and, of course, I left full instructions for his care—fire to be guarded—no going near the pond—no window to be open at the bottom—you know the sort of thing. But while I was in full career of shopping a cold fear seized me—what if Ronald should go playing with the mangle and crush his finger? So I hunted for a post office (no easy thing in London!) and telegraphed home, “Keep Ronald from mangle”, and then went back to my shopping with complete peace of mind. When the door was opened on my return I was told that everything was all right, but that there was a telegram for me. Like an idiot, I had addressed it “Macbeth”, and of course it hadn’t been opened.’

  There was soon to be a treat for all of us, and it would be hard to say which enjoyed it most, Arthur or I or the boys. As I opened the door to Arthur one evening he exclaimed, I’ve had a letter from Bourne!’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘that’s common enough, what is there to be excited about?’ ‘But it was posted in London. He and his wife and little girl are actually in England—landed yesterday—and are now at an hotel. I’ve told him to bring them here at once. We can put them up, can’t we?’

  Yes, indeed, there was room for all. Bourne was an old and dear friend, and I feared him not, but I was rather nervous of Mrs. Bourne, lest she should be too grand for our simple household. I learnt afterwards that she was nervous of me lest I should be clever. Both illusions were dispelled at our first meal, for as she helped me place the children round the table and dispense the food, I announced, ‘Now if anybody wants anything he must just scream.’

  All lessons were discarded at once. The youngest boy had been engaged in copying out the national anthem, and left it at the stage of ‘Long live our nob’. Hilda, the little girl, came in age near the younger boys. She was an only child, brought up very carefully and properly, and her delight was intense when she found that she could get as muddy and untidy as she liked, without any reprimand. She was astonished, too, that bruises and grazed knees had no remedies applied, but were expected to heal up of themselves. This taste of freedom was intoxicating to her. When the boys asked her if she was a South African native she denied it a little indignantly, but had to admit that she had been born there, and then the misunderstanding was cleared up. She was an eager listener to stories, and I remember how much she liked Tolstoi’s What Men Live By.

  The charge of the four children fell to me most of the time, for Mrs. Bourne had a great deal of shopping to do in London. Her husband had business of his own in town, and he used to take her up with him, deposit her in Swan & Edgar’s or Peter Robinson’s, or some similar emporium, with instructions to take a cab as soon as she came out to the next place she wanted to visit. Now she was a perfect stranger to London and was so completely dazed that she drove to the station to get back to Barnet as soon as she decently could. I soon gathered that all she experienced of a London street was the bit of pavement between the shop-door and the cab.

  ‘The way to see London,’ said I, ‘is to walk about and press your nose against the wind
ow-panes, or get on the top of a bus. Let’s all go up together tomorrow, and I’ll show you how to enjoy it. What shop have you got to visit next?’

  ‘I was recommended to a shop in St. Paul’s Churchyard, but of course there must be some mistake. The idea of a shop in a churchyard!’

  ‘There’s nothing funny in that,’ said I. ‘There are lots of shops in it. You shall see.’

  She and I and all the children had a grand prowl about the City, into St. Paul’s and along the alleys and by the dignified hidden dwellings close by.

  ‘You think shops in a churchyard are funny,’ said I, ‘what do you say to a church called St. Andrew’s by the Wardrobe?’

  By this time Mrs. Bourne was prepared for any oddity, and we went down Carter Lane to a little turning called Wardrobe Place where old trees are growing out of a paved yard, the remains of the garden of the ancient house called the King’s Wardrobe. Then we went on to see St. Andrew’s, and then to Blackfriars to see the river. And on the top of a bus back to King’s Cross we saw no end of other things.

  As their fathers went off to town after breakfast every day the children saw little of them till the week-end. But Arthur delighted Hilda by going to kiss her goodnight; she seemed like his little daughter. She was tremendously impressed with his top hat—a thing to which she was quite unused.

  We grown-ups had plenty of fun in the evenings, talking of old times, telling new stories, and arguing far into the night. Among all our good neighbours in Barnet there was no one of Bourne’s mental calibre, and I could see how refreshing to Arthur was this first-rate talk with accompaniment of fire and pipe.

  When Sunday came we set off for church. Feeling a little anxious as to how the vicar’s ‘practices’ might strike Mrs. Bourne, I asked her whether the church in Cape Town was a high one. ‘Not very, I’m afraid,’ she replied, and added more hopefully, ‘but they are thinking of building a tower.’ I had no more concern on this point. The children filed into our usual pew, and I felt proud of my increased family. I didn’t notice that when the boys placed their hats neatly down in front of them Hilda followed suit and placed her little blue cap alongside. Presently the verger touched my arm and whispered, ‘Is that a little girl? Would you ask her to put her hat on?’ Obviously the Bournes were not great churchgoers, and Hilda had some difficulty in keeping her end up when she was questioned by the eldest boy as to her favourite feast-day, her favourite psalm, her favourite hymn, and so on. She only knew of Christmas, of ‘The Lord is my shepherd,’ and ‘Onward Christian soldiers,’ but as these were quite a natural choice her ignorance of any others was not observed, and it is only lately that she has told me of how awkward she felt. When it came to putting together the puzzle of the English counties the boys were genuinely shocked at her not knowing any of them, not even Cornwall from Durham. She was too polite to retaliate with some searching questions about Africa. Indeed, she was perfectly happy to be told everything as they all rampaged about the house and garden and woods.

  ‘What a darling little girl she is,’ said Arthur to me when they had gone, ‘how I wish that our boys were better behaved. I feel quite ashamed when I see other children so polite and obedient—their cousins, for instance, how good they are.’

  ‘Yes, of course they are,’ said I. ‘When their favourite uncle comes to see them they are gracious hosts, and when they come here they are gracious guests. No father ever really sees other people’s children. Let’s hope they’re naughty enough in the bosom of their own family.’

  ‘Hope? Why should we hope they are naughty?’

  ‘Well, if children always did exactly as they were told, were always unthinkingly obedient, how could the world advance? And how dull it would be. Tell me now, did you ever do anything really bad when you were a boy?’

  ‘I often used to go blind with rage.’

  ‘That’s all right. It’s better to have a temper to curb than to have none at all.’

  ‘But sometimes it was ugly enough. Once, when Llewelyn was asked to a party and I wasn’t, I filled his boots with water. It’s nothing to laugh at, I’ve always been ashamed of it.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, once I played truant from our little school. Off I started to get a whole long time to myself fishing in our stream at Corris. It was just the day for it—fish rising beautifully, and I got some fine trout.’

  I noticed as he spoke that his eyes were shining at the recollection of that day, and I added, ‘There you are! An act of insubordination and a joy for ever.’

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  {1} From Francis Pember, All Souls. Oxford, 7 Nov. 1936.