The Bell Family

by Noel Streatfeild

  Cathy looked upon August as the time for filling her shelves. Together she and Aunt Ann picked windfall apples, mulberries and marrows, and turned them into pots of jam. While the jam was cooking they talked and talked about their families. Liza’s tendency to spots, Ginnie’s being too fat, Ricky being a little backward at school, Angus and his dancing, Jane and her dancing, Paul and his scholarship, and all the other things that mothers manage to find to talk about when their children are not there to listen.

  It always seemed, when thinking about it, as if London would be unendurable when they got back, but actually each year the same thing happened. There was Mrs Gage to see, and tell her all about it, there was Esau to make a fuss of because it was perhaps harder for him than anyone coming home, because he missed the rabbits, which he hunted every day, and to everyone’s relief never caught. Even Miss Bloggs, as Ginnie pointed out, was less Bloggish when they came back in September. Then, of course, however much they grumbled about going back there was the excitement of the beginning of a new term at school, the changes, new pupils and the gossip.

  For Angus leaving Liza’s pets behind was made easier because he was starting his dancing classes. Angus starting his dancing classes was made easier for Jane because the autumn term was the one in which they had the school play, in which she was dancing the nymph. St Winifred’s were great supporters of the Invalid Children’s Aid Association; the girls subscribed to the funds all the year, but each autumn term they gave a public performance of a play in aid of the charity, and they asked somebody of distinction to speak about it before the performance. The autumn term had hardly started before the day came when Jane and Ginnie rushed home with the most extraordinary piece of news.

  ‘Mummy,’ said Jane, ‘you’ll never, never guess the awful thing that’s going to happen.’

  ‘The shame of it,’ moaned Ginnie, ‘it’s the kind of thing the school’ll remember for ever and ever, I shouldn’t think we could possibly live it down.’

  Cathy went on spreading bread and butter for tea.

  ‘What is this catastrophe?’

  ‘We thought,’ said Jane, ‘we’d let you guess, and then we knew you never, never would. It’s the sort of thing nobody could suppose would ever happen.’

  ‘Well?’ Cathy asked.

  Ginnie sprawled across the table.

  ‘Miss Newton has invited Uncle Alfred to make the speech about the school charity.’

  Jane broke in:

  ‘And he’s said yes, but there’s worse than that.’

  Ginnie nodded.

  ‘It’s worse-tish for me, really. Aunt Rose is coming too. Imagine, Mummy, I’ve got to present her with a bouquet.’

  Cathy understood how Jane and Ginnie felt, but of course she could not say so.

  ‘I think you ought to be rather proud. After all, they generally ask someone very distinguished. It’s nice to have a distinguished uncle.’

  Jane sounded reproving.

  ‘That’s mother talk, you don’t believe a word of it.’

  ‘Besides,’ said Ginnie, ‘we don’t think he’s been asked because he’s distinguished, we can’t really think why he has been. Miss Newton said she particularly wanted him to be there, and she looked rather odd, we thought, when she said that. We think, at least my form does, that he’s been asked because he’s rich. We think she thinks he’ll put something enormous into the collecting box, like five pounds.’

  Cathy put the bread and butter on the tea tray.

  ‘Then let’s hope he does. Now listen, darlings, whatever you may think about Uncle Alfred coming to the school, you’re not to say it in front of Daddy. After all, he is your father’s only brother, you wouldn’t like it if people were rude about Paul or Angus, would you?’

  Ginnie got off the table.

  ‘As a matter of fact, when anyone is rude about Angus I always say I couldn’t agree more.’

  As usual, when anything extra was going on, clothes became a problem. Cathy, though she had not said so, had been afraid that she was going to have to provide a dress for Jane to wear as the nymph. The clothes usually came out of the school wardrobe, but Jane said she was sure there was nothing for nymphs in it.

  ‘Anyhow, if there was anything, being St Winifred’s it would be probably made of serge or flannel, or something like that.’

  Cathy had laughed, and said that nobody could possibly be a nymph in flannel or serge, but she had felt anxious. This chance of dancing the nymph meant a great deal to Jane, and if the school dress was too terrible she felt she would have to open the money box and buy something herself. But as it happened it was not necessary. About a fortnight before the first dress rehearsal Jane came home from school with shining eyes.

  ‘Imagine, Mummy, Miss Newton sent for me today, and what do you think? She’s having a dress made for me for the nymph. It’s a simply lovely silver tunic, with a sort of cape thing over one shoulder. It’s all silver, because the nymph that I am is the servant of the morning.’

  Cathy was delighted about the dress.

  ‘But why do servants of the morning have to wear silver?’

  Jane lowered her voice. Only Esau was in the room.

  ‘Quite truthfully, Mummy, it’s a really terrible play, and I think Miss Newton thinks it is, but she can’t say so because it’s written by the wife of the chairman of the school governors. But the bit I am is lovely, because I’m all alone, and she didn’t choose the music for me, I can choose what I like.’

  Cathy smiled. Everybody in the house knew what Jane’s music was going to be, for she practised to it every morning, having borrowed a small portable gramophone from a school friend.

  ‘If the play’s very silly won’t Bach’s “Sheep may safely graze” strike a rather unexpected note?’

  Jane nodded.

  ‘It’s going to, but Miss Newton says she thinks by the time I dance the audience’ll be ready for a bit of good music, and truly, Mummy, I think she’s right.’

  For special occasions the girls of St Winifred’s had to wear what were known as ‘school whites.’ Miss Newton fought the governors at every meeting, imploring them to do away with the ‘school whites,’ but the governors refused. St Winifred’s girls had always worn white dresses since the day when the school was founded, and the governors saw no reason to change the custom. Miss Newton saw every reason. Girls in their teens are inclined to bulge, and do not look nice in white. Both parents and girls loathed the white dresses, and the girls never wore them outside the school, so any white dress did. Usually it was passed down the family, or run up at home out of cheap stuff, and looked like it. Ginnie had just inherited a ‘school white’ from Jane. Amongst the bundles of clothes for poor clergy a white evening dress had turned up. It was made of taffeta, and was rather worn, and was stained in places. But it had an enormously full skirt, and with great skill Cathy had cut out of it a really quite charming frock for Jane, with a plain tight bodice and fairly full pleated skirt. Unfortunately, what had been quite charming for Jane was anything but charming for Ginnie. What had been a tight-fitted bodice on Jane became a bursting bodice on Ginnie. Cathy let out every bit that would let out, and put buttons and buttonholes down the back, so it could not pop open, but Ginnie said she felt like a too-full hot water bottle in it, and quite truthfully that was rather how she looked. The skirt was the right length, but there was more of Ginnie behind than there was of Jane, and so it would ride up at the back.

  ‘Just imagine how I’m going to look behind when I bow to Aunt Rose,’ said Ginnie. ‘It’s lucky I match underneath, for that’s the part of me the audience is going to see most of.’

  Cathy told Ginnie not to be a goose, she would look very nice presenting the bouquet, but to Jane she said:

  ‘Ginnie’s quite right, the dress is terrible on her, and it really is sickening she is wearing it the year the school have invited Uncle Alfred to make the speech. But, thank goodness, Aunt Rose will be on the platform too, I couldn’t have borne it if I thought
she had her eyes on Ginnie’s back view.’

  ‘Couldn’t she have a new frock?’ Jane pleaded. ‘After all, it’s the first time she’s done anything before the whole school.’

  ‘Oh, I do wish she could, darling. But honestly, can you think of a worse waste of money than buying a “school white” when she already has one?’

  Jane had to admit Cathy was right.

  ‘Quite honestly I can’t.’

  Ginnie did not care a bit what she wore. Except that she was afraid Uncle Alfred would shame her and Jane, she quite looked forward to play Saturday, and was willing to treat it as an ordinary day. This was a good thing, because, on Saturday morning, Mrs Gage and Cathy counted on family help, but that Saturday morning Jane was no use to anybody, Angus was practising dancing, and Paul playing football, so all the odd jobs fell on Ginnie. First, there was answering the front door, then the shopping. There was quite a heavy basket of shopping, and Ginnie was glad to get it home. She shouted to Cathy to tell her she was back.

  ‘Here’s everything, Mummy. Goodness, it’s heavy.’

  Cathy came down from doing the bedrooms.

  ‘Thank you very much, darling. Would you take it to Mrs Gage, and ask her to give you and Esau a chocolate biscuit each for shopping for me.’

  Ginnie was pleased about the biscuits, but she had to be fair.

  ‘Quite truthfully me and Esau were glad to go out. This house is terrible this morning. Jane keeps practice, practice, practice, and I’m sick to death of that tune she dances to, aren’t you, Mummy?’

  Cathy put a finger to her lips, and pointed to Jane and Ginnie’s bedroom.

  ‘She’s practising in there now. She’s nervous, poor pet.’

  Ginnie was scornful.

  ‘I can’t think why. Here’s me making a speech to Aunt Rose, and I’m not nervous, only disgusted. Where’s Angus, has he stopped practising?’

  ‘No. But Daddy’s busy, and I couldn’t stand any more crashes, so I told him to go and work in the parish hall.’

  Ginnie thought she had answered all the day’s callers.

  ‘Daddy still busy! I let in five christenings, two weddings, six people who didn’t say what they’d come about, and what looked like a family row. Once I had twelve people waiting in the hall.’

  ‘I know, darling, but Saturdays are always busy, you know, Mrs Gage says they are worse when we have a fine Saturday after a wet week, and it has rained a lot lately.’

  ‘Poor Daddy. D’you think he’ll miss the school play finishing his sermon?’

  Cathy shook her head.

  ‘He certainly won’t. Even if it means his staying up all night working at it, he’ll be there. Besides, we promised Miss Newton we would both come. I think she thinks Jane is going to be very good, for twice she’s telephoned to be sure we are coming. Now run along, pet, to Mrs Gage, or there’ll be no lunch.’

  Mrs Gage was pleased to see the shopping.

  ‘You take the biscuits. My hands are wet. Only one each mind. I’m in a rush to get on, I don’t want to miss the school concert.’

  The chocolate biscuits lived in a tin in the kitchen cupboard. They were all the same size, but Ginnie believed some had more chocolate on them than others. She chose two and gave Esau his.

  ‘Here you are, angel boy.’ Then she saw there was a lot of drying up to do. ‘I’ll dry those for you if you want to go to the school play, but you won’t like it, except, of course, Jane’s dancing.’

  Mrs Gage handed Ginnie a drying cloth.

  ‘Thank you, ducks. Why won’t I like it? Isn’t it laughable?’

  Ginnie thought about that.

  ‘It isn’t meant to be. But seeing who are being the shepherd and shepherdess I suppose it is. They look simply terrible in their costumes, and when you think they’re supposed to be made of china you can’t help laughing.’

  Mrs Gage was cutting up vegetables, she stopped with half a carrot in her hand.

  ‘China! Well, I never!’

  ‘It isn’t their being made of china that’s funny, it’s that the two girls that have to be the shepherd and shepherdess look less like china than anybody else in the school.’

  ‘Why let them take the parts then?’

  Ginnie put some plates on the rack.

  ‘Because one’s head of the school, and the other’s the games’ captain.’

  ‘What’s the piece about?’

  ‘It’s a sort of dream. The shepherd and shepherdess are in a shop and they love one another. It’s that sort of idiotic play.’

  ‘I like a nice love tale.’

  Ginnie was very fond of Mrs Gage, but she had discussed films with her, and knew her to have what she thought regrettably bad taste.

  ‘I know you do. But this is the worst sort of love story. You see, somebody comes to the shop and buys the shepherdess, and that makes the shepherd’s heart crack. It’s a good thing I’ve told you about his heart cracking before you see the play, or you’d never know it happened. For all the girl who is the shepherd does is to hold her front, and look as though she was going to be sick, and say in a very mimsy-pimsy voice: “Ooh. Ooh. My heart! My heart is breaking.” Then she falls down dead, and that’s the end of act one.’

  ‘Isn’t it laughable?’

  Mrs Gage stopped slicing a potato.

  ‘You got that wrong. Must be the end of the tale if the ’ero’s dead. You can’t go on once the ’ero’s ’opped it.’

  ‘At St Winifred’s you can. You see, the next scene is The Land Beyond the Stars. You wouldn’t know it was meant to be that, if you didn’t read your programme, because it’s just like act one, only there are roses and stars hung over everything, made by the middle fifth at prep.’

  ‘What ’appens beyond the stars?’

  ‘Well, it’s that sort of scene that uses everybody. First, the school choir sing, dressed as sort of angels, at least they are angels’ clothes in the Christmas nativity play, but they’ve had the wings taken off, so perhaps they aren’t angels in this play. Then the best dancers, except Jane, dance. I think they’re meant to be stars, but they wear the tunics they always wear at displays, only they have stars on their heads. Then the shepherd comes back.’

  Mrs Gage was trying to follow the story.

  ‘But you said ’e was dead.’

  ‘Not beyond the stars he isn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know, it’s that sort of play. The first thing that happens is he has to fight a kind of demon thing, at least he’s supposed to fight it, only he doesn’t really, because the mistress who produced the play was afraid somebody would get hurt. Anyway, the demon thing is supposed to be killed, so he falls down dead.’

  ‘Where’s ’e go? Beyond the moon?’

  Ginnie thought that very funny. When she had stopped laughing she said:

  ‘But you mustn’t laugh this afternoon, or you’ll get turned out. Anyway, after he’s dead the school choir come back, and sing again. Then the stage goes black, and when the lights come on Jane’s there. She’s the servant of the morning.’

  Mrs Gage put her vegetables on the stove.

  ‘My ’ead’s goin’ round. You don’t ’all make it sound a muddle. What’s the mornin’ got to do with it?’

  ‘Nothing. And I don’t make it sound half as much of a muddle as it is. There are lots of other people I haven’t told you about. A cat, a dog and a bird with a face like Miss Bloggs.’

  ‘Is Jane the end of the piece?’

  ‘Almost, thank goodness. The shepherd comes back again, and Jane opens what are supposed to be gates, but are really pieces of curtain at the back of the stage, and there’s the fat shepherdess.’

  ‘Is she dead too?’

  ‘I don’t know, but they have to kiss. It’s awfully difficult not to laugh there. Then the choir sing again, and that’s the end.’

  Mrs Gage saw Ginnie had nearly finished the drying up.

  ‘Better be too or I’ll never be done in time to dress for the c
oncert. Thank you, ducks. On the shelf you’ll find some coppers. You take Esau with you and buy yourself an ice.’

  When Paul came home at lunch time Jane was in the hall having a last practice of her dance. The record was getting worn, and the gramophone she had borrowed was old, and had a tinny tone. But Johann Sebastian Bach’s music could not be destroyed. The lovely notes filled the hall. Paul, climbing the stairs to change his clothes, hung over the banisters. The kitchen door was shut, Cathy was in the dining-room, Ginnie and Angus out, Jane believed nobody was looking.

  Paul knew nothing about dancing. He knew Jane was keen, and people said she was good, and he thought she ought to have her chance. It was not fair that money should be spent on training him and none on training her. He was always trying to find out how good she was, but he had never thought of watching her dance, and making up his own mind. Now, as he watched her, he thought he knew the answer. He did not know how good dancing ought to look, but she certainly looked all right in the same way a good athlete looked all right. He went up the stairs on tiptoe, so as not to disturb her. In his bedroom was a microscope, and a lot of books, which would help him when he started to train as a doctor. Looking at them he suddenly dragged open a drawer in the chest-of-drawers, and into it bundled the books and the microscope. Then he slammed it shut. There would be no time to write the letter before the school play, but he would write directly he came home. It would be easier if the books and the microscope were out of sight.

  9

  The School Play

  BECAUSE UNCLE ALFRED and Aunt Rose were the guests of honour, Cathy, Alex, Paul and Angus were invited to meet them in Miss Newton’s room before the school play. Only Alex thought this arrangement a good idea. Cathy had no wish to trail into the school hall behind Aunt Rose, looking, she was sure, like the poor relation that she was. Paul hated going into St Winifred’s at any time, he always felt the girls were staring at him, and the thought of making a public entrance filled him with horror. Angus would not have minded if it had not been that Veronica was going to be there.