by Ruskin Bond
Miss Blombell's father was a waiter in Soho, and Miss Blombell had never been to the Continent. She was not beautiful but had an affectionate nature, and she painted her fingernails pale red. She was an ardent Socialist, and took full personal responsibility for the activities of His Majesty's Government, while Miss Kittering—an ardent Tory—hinted darkly at the fall of England.
It was Miss Blombell who first perceived that there was some mystery attached to one of the leather folders on the table across the foyer. She was not sure when she noticed it for the first time: it permeated her consciousness gradually. In the morning, a young soldier had sat in the foyer for over an hour, twisting his cap and smoking and looking suitably out of place. He was a private, and the lowest rank to pace the Splendide, by normal standards, was that of brigadier. He was good-looking and his air was that of respectful equanimity to life in general. His boots were brightly polished, and his hair newly cut and brushed. The brass on him glittered proudly, and only his chainsmoking gave away his inner misgivings.
He had looked wanly though the empty folders in search of something to read, and then sat back and gave himself up to watching the parade of great and near-great that undulated unhurriedly to and from the lifts and the quilted doors.
When he had been there an hour, a family emerged from one of the lifts and coursed majestically towards him. The father and mother were elderly and arrayed in slightly old-fashioned glory, and their daughter, walking a little ahead and looking eagerly about her, was young and pretty and as well-bred as a racehorse. The soldier stood up, and though he kept a pokerface, his adoration flowed through it so palpably that not even a child of five could have been deceived. He and the girl were in love, and were blissfully deluded into thinking they kept it a secret from the world.
The parents were introduced, and the group sat down sedately. Polite conversation came into play, and after a moment or so it was obvious even to Miss Blombell at the far end of the foyer that a steel curtain was lowering itself slowly between the parents and the young man. It could not have been more clear to Miss Blombell that he was being subjected to a grilling examination, and that he was being found not suitable. His shyness took the form of a kind of ingratiating humility; his anxiety to please fell wider and wider of the mark.
The parents could not have been more magnanimous and open-minded. It was clear that their policy was to give him full credit for his assets before they found him wanting in essentials. The girl, watching the effect of his personality on her parents, and theirs on him, for the first time, was obviously giving way to a slow, quiet despair. In the clear light of unsentimental reality, she saw, for the first time, the long complicated vista of incompatibilities that would be their future; the unending readjustments, the two diametric ways of life and thought that would clash and grate and ultimately reach deadlock.
The father took the offensive, and in ponderous and patient idiom slowly asked questions, and added profound comments to the young soldier's answers, nodding sympathetically when some point he had made could not be adequately answered. The idyllic rapture of the young people's love was being scientifically dismantled, hope by hope.
Miss Blombell became so engrossed that she inadvertently sold a casual customer a packet of holy cigarettes from under the counter. At the end of half an hour the issue was no longer a doubtful one. The soldier had been driven from the field, and the parents were hoisting their victorious colours. The girl was pale and quiet; she no longer sought the soldier's glance, thereby to reaffirm his courage for him: she looked down at her gloves, and brushed non-existent creases from her dress, or stared over her father's head at the palms.
Later, Miss Blombell knew, when she was alone, she would cry; because it was all over. The soldier had become stiff and awkward; he faltered now when he answered, and otherwise made no effort to speak; it was obviously taking all his effort to keep his face mask-like. Already sick, numb, despairing ache had routed the joy in his breast.
Miss Blombell felt like a receiving set picking up shortwave emotions; she could almost reduplicate, in her own breast, the feeling of anguish and defeat in the girl. She had a wild, unseemly desire to shout across the foyer, 'Keep your heart up! Don't let those old fogies get you down!'
The father called a page-boy and ordered drinks—they were to part on civil terms, with all the laws of courtesy and civility respected. The tension relaxed into natural apathy, and the soldier picked up one of the leather folders and opened it idly. He sat for a moment looking at it.
And then, suddenly, his mood began to alter. His body straightened, his head came up. Miss Blombell felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine. The soldier handed the folder silently and casually to the girl, as if it were of no more importance than an ash-tray or a dropped glove; and the girl, taking it with a faintly puzzled air, opened it listlessly. The page-boy left, and the parents returned their attention to the two young people; but it was clear now that a new element had entered into the situation, for suddenly the girl began to talk, slowly at first, but with increasing assurance, and the mother and father changed their positions in their chairs, as if confounded and pained.
Miss Blombell was distracted at this moment by an elderly lady demanding a Havana cigar, and when she was able to catch up with the quartet again, the girl was on the edge of her chair, her head tilted defiantly, and her words came steadily and with authority. The soldier's attitude had changed, too. He leaned forward, and his eyes were fixed on hers with pride and admiration. Occasionally, he darted a glance at her mother and father, but there was nothing down-trodden about him now. It was clear that the parents were struggling to keep their tempers in check to prevent an unseemly exhibition in a public place. The mother had become soothing, and the father's hand waved placatingly, but the tide, having turned, now swept on, and the girl rose suddenly, held out her hand to the soldier, and pulled him towards her. They walked firmly and purposefully through the foyer and out of the quilted doors into the street, and the parents, after an ineffectual flutter, rose and made their way to the lift, talking agitatedly in undertones.
Miss Blombell, elated, removed her spectacles and wiped them. Her heart felt foolishly light and free, as if it were she herself who had flaunted the parents and chosen her own way of life. For a moment she felt ridiculously young. It took a sharp cough from Miss Kittering to bring her back to earth, to attend to a Foreign Office official in need of cigarettes from the secret cache. When her mind had leisure to return to the subject, she began to speculate as to what had been in the folder…
'Miss Kittering,' she said casually, 'did you supply the magazines for the folders on that table over there?'
'Indeed I did not,' Miss Kittering made answer, 'I was unaware of the presence of magazines in the folders.'
'Well, that is odd, isn't it?' said Miss Blombell, greatly intrigued, but in no way anxious to share confidences with Miss Kittering. As she spoke, she saw an elderly woman, thumbing aimlessly through the folders, suddenly pause, twitch, and slap the folder shut with a gesture of supercilious irritation.
From then on Miss Blombell never let her eye wander too far from the folders and on the table. The special one lay at the end of the table, and it was easy to keep it under survey. In rough order, it brought reactions of amusement, irritability or bored indifference; but Miss Blombell was convinced that something very odd lay within it.
About half an hour before she went off duty, Colin Mather came in. Even with the shortage of newsprint, Miss Blombell knew all about the Mather divorce, and under her counter she kept twenty cigarettes a day for Mrs Mather, who was living at the Splendide with her two small children. They were a glamorous couple, and in the days before the war the society periodicals ran pictures of them at Ascot, first nights, the Riviera, and sitting on shooting sticks in Scotland. The marriage had gone up in smoke during the war, and they had been separated for nearly a year. They never met except in the company of a lawyer; they were obviously bitter towards each
other, and their wounded vanities wrestled for supremacy. Their friends had sided fairly evenly, and clearly neither of them was entirely without blame. Mrs Mather was now receiving attentions from a stately admirer who never proceeded further than the foyer when he called for her or brought her back to the hotel. He was rich and calm and dreary, and Miss Blombell took especial pleasure in pointing to her 'No Cigarettes' sign when he paused at her counter.
Colin Mather, on the other hand, she rather admired. He had been a Commando, and even in civilian clothes cut rather a dash. He had the sort of face that advertise pipe tobacco, and had begun to grey at the temples. Perhaps, he was a little ordinary, too; but not as much so as the new admirer, and Miss Blombell, faithful until then to Mrs Mather's cause, felt her loyalties beginning to shift anchor. A few minutes later Mrs Mather appeared from the lift, followed by her lawyer, and they made their way to where he was standing and exchanged cool, formal greetings. Miss Blombell had observed that Mr Mather had opened and closed the folder casually, just before he saw his wife, and when they sat down he took the chair that the young private had used.
An air of impeccable impartiality hung over them. They were clearly finishing up some trivial agenda to a clause in the divorce suit; they both looked bored and passive, nodding faintly as the lawyer paused for confirmation, and letting their attentions wander with elaborate negligence in any direction save towards each other.
Colin Mather spoke, addressing himself deliberately to the lawyer, and the lawyer hesitated and looked at Mrs Mather for guidance. Mrs Mather replied in quiet and unruffled terms, addressing her husband directly, and wearing the expression of a patient governess. It was apparent that disagreement was now in the air, and though they never betrayed their feelings by expression, or lifted their voices from a casual conversational level, the breach was becoming wider as they spoke; and at last Mrs Mather shrugged resignedly and turned away, and Colin began stubbing out his cigarette as if it had turned on him and bitten his finger. The lawyer's attitude had obviously stiffened, too, and his lips were thin and severe, though he still spoke more in sorrow than in anger.
Colin Mather then began talking in a rapid undertone, clearly pulling at the cupboard door to expose a skeleton or two; and now his wife caught some of his anger and began to reply with equal heat. The lawyer coughed, and they both stopped short, embarrassed. She half rose. The lawyer detained her, and she sat again, unwillingly. The tension refused to abate, however. Her husband, leaning back in exaggerated ease to show himself master of the situation, brushed the folder with his elbow. For a moment his anger grappled with some other emotion. Then he picked up the folder and handed it to her without a word. She took it half-suspiciously, hesitated a moment, and then opened it.
Miss Blombell's view was obscured for a few seconds by a passing group of matrons, and when she could see the trio again, to her amazement Mrs Mather had begun to cry. She pushed the folder back into her husband's hand, and opened her bag in search of a handkerchief. The lawyer looked uncomprehendingly at them both. Colin Mather returned the folder to the table and then slowly and tentatively he held out his hand. Slowly, she put out her own towards him, and for a moment they sat like children, gazing at each other wistfully. Then she rose, still holding his hand, and they walked together towards the lift, leaving the lawyer to his own devices.
Miss Blombell's curiosity was now at fever pitch; she felt she must see what was in the folder before she was another minute older, or scream. But Mrs Platty, who took over when she went off duty, was late, and she was marooned behind her counter.
A cold, thin dowager had paused by the table now, in a fruitless search for a magazine. When she came to the end folder, her brow darkened, and after a moment's private debate she came across the foyer and handed the folder to Miss Kittering.
'You might be interested to know of this vandalism,' she said acidly. 'Someone has been doing some vulgar scrawling in here.'
'I'm afraid I have nothing to do with these folders, madam,' Miss Kittering replied aloofly. 'I suggest that you register your complaint with one of the managers—'
Miss Blombell edged over from her side of the booth and, controlling her eagerness with an effort, held out her hand.
'If you'd care to leave it with me, madam, I'll see that it reaches the manager,' she said politely.
'Some people might think it a matter of small consequence,' said the dowager, handing over the folder, 'but a thing like this can contribute harmfully to disrespect of private property. It's not the sort of thing one expects to find in a hotel of this standard.'
She turned and moved away. Indifferent to Miss Kittering's surprised stare, Miss Blombell opened the folder. It was empty, like the others; but in deeply scored pencil, in large block letters, was written inside its cover, 'I LOVE YOU, LOVE YOU, LOVE YOU SO!'
WHAT HAPPENED TO A FATHER WHO BECAME A SCHOOLBOY
F. Anstey
Perhaps it would be a good thing if some fathers were transformed into boys and went to school again. But perhaps it would not be so good if boys were suddenly changed into heavy-weight seniors. What might happen in both cases was the original idea of an amusing book, Vice Versa: A Lesson to Fathers, by Thomas Anstey Guthrie. The father in Vice Versa, Mr Paul Multitude, was bidding goodbye in a sermonizing way to his son Dick, who was not very keen—at any rate, for the moment—about returning to school. Dick handed his father a curious stone which his Uncle Duke had brought from India, and which had magic powers of fulfilling the first wish expressed by whoever held the stone. Mr Bultitude, as fathers will do, happened to say that he wished he could be like Dick again—and lo! he became a boy. Feeling himself to be in a ridiculous position, he tried to wish himself back to his former self; but the Garuda stone did not work that way. He gave the stone to Dick, thinking that he might wish things back as they were. But Dick, realising his unique opportunity to escape school, uttered his own wish—and lo! he became Bultitude senior.
'What did you say?' gasped Paul. 'Why, you see,' exclaimed Dick, 'it would never have done for us both to go back; the chaps would have humbugged us so; and as I hate the place, and you seem so fond of being a boy and going back to school and that, I thought perhaps it would be best for you to go and see how you liked it!'
'I never will! I'll not stir from this room! I dare you to try to move me!' cried Paul. And just then there was the sound of wheels outside once more. They stopped before the house, the bell rang sharply—the long-expected cab had come at last.
'You've no time to lose,' said Dick, 'get your coat on.'
Mr Bultitude tried to treat the affair as a joke. He laughed a ghastly little laugh.
'Ha! ha! You've fairly caught your poor old father this time; you've proved him wrong. I admit I said more than I exactly meant. But that's enough. Don't drive a good joke too far; shake hands, and let us see if we can't find a way out of this!'
But Dick only warmed his coat tails at the fire as he said, with a very ungenerous reminiscence of his father's manner: 'You are going back to an excellent establishment, where you will enjoy all the comforts of home—I can particularly recommend the stick jaw; look out for it on Tuesdays and Fridays. You will once more take part in the games and lessons of happy boyhood. (Did you ever play "chevy" before when you were a boy? You'll enjoy "chevy".) And you will find your companions easy enough to get on with, if you don't go giving yourself airs; they won't stand airs. Now goodbye, my boy, and bless you!'
Paul stood staring stupidly at this outrageous assumption; he could scarcely believe even yet that it was meant in cruel earnest. Before he could answer, the door opened and Boaler appeared.
'Had a deal of trouble to find a keb, sir, on a night like this,' he said to the false Dick, 'but the luggage is all on top, and the man says there's plenty of time still.'
'Goodbye then, my boy,' said Dick, with well-assumed tenderness, but a rather dangerous light in his eye. 'Remember, I expect you to work…'
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[Mr Pa
ul Bultitude, now transformed into his son, found himself being driven to the station, en route for school. In his unaccustomed surroundings there, he had a bad time—very different from that spent by Dick, according to this letter from Miss Bultitude sent to her supposed brother at the school.]
'My dearest darling Dick, I hope you have not been expecting a letter from me before this, but I had such lots to tell you that I waited till I had time to tell it all at once. For I have such news for you! You can't think how pleased you will be when you hear it. Where shall I begin? I hardly know, for it still seems so funny and strange—almost like a dream—only I hope we shall never wake up.
'I think I must tell you anyhow, just as it comes. Well, ever since you went away (how was it you never came up to say goodbye to us in the drawing-room? We couldn't believe till we heard the door shut that you really had driven away without another word!) Where am I? Oh, ever since you went away, dear Papa has been completely changed; you would hardly believe it unless you saw him. He is quite jolly and boyish—only fancy! and we are always telling him he is the biggest baby of us all, but it only makes him laugh. Once, you know, he would have been awfully angry if we had even hinted at it.
'Do you know, I really think that the real reason he was so crabby and sharp with us that last week was because you were going away; for now the wrench of parting is over, he is quite light-hearted again. You know how he always hates showing his feelings.
'He is so altered now, you can't think. He has actually only once been up to the city since you left, and then he came home at four o'clock, and he seems quite like to have us all about him. Generally, he stays at home all the morning and plays at soldiers with baby in the dining room. You would laugh to see him loading the cannons with real powder and shot, and he didn't care a bit when some of it made holes in the sideboard and smashed the looking-glass.
