I Ordered a Table for Six

by Noel Streatfeild

  Meggie and Miss Jones came for what was merely supposed to be a long visit to the vicarage when Adela went to stay with Millicent in nineteen thirty-six. Meggie was just twelve. Miss Jones, staring now at sixteen-year-old Meggie, caught once more the wretchedness of that time. She had been unhappy in herself, and Fred and Jessie had shared in her worry. Meggie was still their child, open, frank, violently enthusiastic, but in the last months she had a part of her life in which none of them shared. She had become the pet and the companion of Paul. It was a peculiarly bad time, they considered, for such a friendship. Paul’s weakness had grown and at last got beyond even his mother’s power to hide. Adela’s relations had stepped in. They had been more brutally frank even than Fred, and they had power behind them. They were Adela’s trustees, and could make things difficult, and Adela’s mother was still alive and threatened to alter her will. Paul must have no more debts paid up, there must be no more shifting from job to job, he must be given no more money. One of Adela’s sisters was married to a manufacturer in Manchester, who, unwillingly, agreed to take Paul provided Adela went abroad for at least six months and gave her word to allow Paul no money beyond three pounds a week, which should be paid him as a salary.

  Paul was never flustered. He was a willing creature up to a point. That is to say, he had accepted without argument the various jobs into which he had been pushed. It did not really seem to be much to do with him that he never held them. His absenting himself from work was never planned, it was just that something else turned up, and without thinking at all he went and did it. It really almost seemed the same over his crimes; he wanted money and he took it; he had always taken his mother’s, so it had become a habit to him to put notes in his pocket. Fred, on the very few occasions when he had managed to pin Paul down to talks, had come to the conclusion that he did not know good from bad, that wanting a thing enough was the only motive for what he did.

  Paul and Meggie’s friendship, as far as Miss Jones knew, had started suddenly. One day she was the little sister in the schoolroom whom he never saw, and the next it was: “I’m going out with Paul this afternoon, Jonesy.” It had been a stab with a knife to Miss Jones. What on earth could she do? Paul and his friends were the bane of the West End. Leaving queer cheques everywhere, noisy, often drunk, parking their cars outside each other’s flats and dementing their neighbourhoods with hootings and catcalls at three in the morning, getting themselves in anywhere they wanted by bluff, and if their bluff was called, totally unashamed. Feckless, unattractive, shunned by the knowledgeable—what companions for a child! Yet how stop her going about with Paul? No good appealing to Adela. Adela was worried, but not sufficiently to admit the brother was no companion for the sister. Miss Jones, who when her duty was clear enough was a lion of courage, went at last to Paul. It had been an interview which had disturbed her, not only by its futility but by the fact that she had never understood it. Adela was out, and Paul lolling in a chair in the morning-room. He had nice manners and threw down The Daily Mirror and got up when Miss Jones came in. Miss Jones, hiding the fact that her hands trembled by gripping them in her lap, had gone straight for her objective. “Paul, Meggie’s going out with you a lot these days; it’s not for me to criticize your mode of life, but Meggie is a child.” Paul had looked at her with an amused expression. “The creator grumbling when the creation behaves as he was conceived?” Then he had added quite nicely: “Don’t fuss, Jonesy. Meggie is all right with me.” It was a most unsatisfactory reply, and yet Miss Jones, to her amazement, had accepted it and had got up and left the room.

  In the months that followed Meggie spent a lot of time with Paul. Her lessons finished at lunch-time and there was preparation after tea. In the afternoons she attended classes—drawing, music, dancing, gymnasium, languages. Her classes were almost always over by four, and more often than not Paul, who was having an unemployed period, would collect Meggie and take her off to tea somewhere. Miss Jones had started by saying: “Meggie has preparation to do,” but she gave it up because punctually at half-past five Meggie would come bounding up the stairs. She had been to tea at a lovely place where there was a band. She had been to the Zoo. She had seen a newsreel. She had driven out to Richmond and fed the deer. Sensible, suitable amusements for a little girl, but foreign to Paul, who as a rule only believed in pleasing Paul. Miss Jones tried to probe. Had Meggie met any of Paul’s friends? Had Paul talked to her at all of his plans? Meggie could not be reticent; it was impossible for her not to take everybody into her confidence, but about Paul she was as nearly evasive as it was in her to be. Sometimes she saw Paul’s friends; they had tea with them, but she and Paul liked being alone best. She believed Paul was going to have a new job, “but they didn’t talk much about dull things.” Miss Jones positively had to hold her tongue between her teeth to prevent herself asking: “What things?” but she was wise. Her position with Meggie was delicately but perfectly balanced. She was governess, friend, and guardian; one false word and the balance would be thrown out and a lovely relationship ruined.

  In an intimate relationship it is hard to accept that there are parts of the loved one’s life that are secret and enclosed. It was very hard for Miss Jones to appear to remain exactly herself when the upheaval occurred. What did Meggie know of it? The story told her was the one she accepted. “Mummie is going to stay with Aunty Millicent in Bermuda, and she is closing the house, so you and Miss Jones will go to Aunt Jessie and Uncle Freddie. Paul is going to Manchester to work for Uncle. George.” Meggie acquiesced without a word, and her silence made Miss Jones feel her a stranger. It was so unlike Meggie to do anything in silence. Miss Jones, feeling that for her to accept the new plans without remark was to increase the little barrier which had grown between her and Meggie, said it would be nice to have a really long stay in the country. Meggie agreed. Miss Jones said it was tiresome Meggie breaking off all her classes, but no doubt there were some of a sort she could attend in the country. Meggie agreed.

  It was in the following summer that the storm broke. There were telephone calls, and telegrams, and long talks between Fred and Jessie behind the shut study door, and Fred, more gaunt even than usual, went up to London and met Adela’ s brothers-in-law, and together they saw solicitors. When Fred returned he had another long talk with Jessie, and Miss Jones was called in. Adela, she learnt, was already on her way home; it was supposed she would reopen the house, but in the meantime, of course, Meggie was to remain at the Vicarage, and she was to be told nothing, also she must not, of course, see a newspaper. Miss Jones acquiesced; obviously, if possible, the horrid story should be kept from the child. But was it possible? What did Meggie know? The day before the bad news came she had been out alone for some hours. Miss Jones later, sorting the laundry, had found a handkerchief of Paul’s in the pocket of the cotton frock the child had worn that day; she had washed it and put it away in a drawer and said nothing. Then it seemed to Miss Jones that Fred’s and Jessie’s stricture of silence was aided and abetted by Meggie. It was unnatural the way she accepted the confusion, the whispers, the atmosphere of strain, as though they were not happening. Then there were the newspapers; that she did not ask for them was reasonable, for, except for the pictures and now and again reading snippets for a general knowledge lesson, she had never bothered with them. But one morning, coming into the drawing room from the garden with Meggie, Miss Jones saw The Times lying in a chair, evidently left for a moment by Jessie, who must have been called away suddenly, for no paper was ever lying about for a moment. Meggie had come into the room first, and to Miss Jones’s dismay she, too, evidently saw The Times. She took an eager step towards it, and then, just as Miss Jones was collecting her wits to stop her, she stopped herself, put her hands behind her back as if to order them to obey, and turned and without explanation ran out of the room. Then, too, it was impossible that so sensitive a creature as Meggie did not feel the waves on waves of compassion for herself which came from the whole village and lapped round her in
cessantly. Fred had told a chosen few: “Mr. Paul’s trouble must not be spoken about in front of Miss Meggie,” and loyally every soul entered into the conspiracy of silence, but even if Meggie, unlike herself, failed to sense something of what was felt for her, or failed to notice the softened tone used when speaking to her, she could not ignore presents. It was early summer and there were bunches of roses, and “my first strawberries,” and “a jug of my cream,” and any amount of other little gifts constantly arriving at the Vicarage. It seemed to Miss Jones that Meggie’s reaction to the presents was a sad one. Her lips said: “How angelic of Mrs. Endicott!” “Oh, I do think it’s nice of those people at the farm!” but her eyes were clouded.

  It was winter when Paul was sent to prison for five years. The entire country buzzed with gossip, and it was difficult to be sure that Meggie heard nothing. In fact she almost must have done, but for her apparent co-operation that Miss Jones had noticed in the summer. This time she could have seen nobody. Paul had not been allowed bail, and though Adela was home she had written to say that Meggie was to stay at the Vicarage, and had agreed she was to be told nothing. Yet Meggie knew something, Miss Jones was convinced of it. There was just a hint when, two days after the trial ended, the farmer came down from Corners with a tiny red setter puppy. He came into the hall, and Meggie was sent for and the puppy was given to her. After her wild excitement and pleasure had died down, and after every imaginable arrangement had been made for the puppy’s comfort, Meggie, lying beside him adoringly while he tried to lick her face, had said: “I shall call him Hardy, like ‘kiss me, Hardy.’ He’s a very kissing kind of dog,” and then she had added after a pause: “It takes being ill, or terrible things to happen, for people to give you presents like him.”

  A week later Fred gave her Barnabas. Even Jessie did not know he was coming. Fred called Meggie out to the usually empty stables; when she came back to the schoolroom Miss Jones thought by her face something was wrong, but Meggie shook her head. “Uncle Freddie’s given me a pony. He’s called Barnabas.”

  “Barnabas?” thought Miss Jones. “Barnabas?” What note did that strike? It was in bed that night that she remembered: “. . . was surnamed Barnabas (which is, being interpreted, The Son of Consolation).”

  Nineteen thirty-eight and the first half of thirty-nine, except for the ever-growing dread of war, were to Miss Jones quite perfect. Adela left Meggie at the Vicarage, and did not interfere with her upbringing. Even when Miss Jones was ordered to bring her to London Adela made no queries about her life. Meggie, still believing in the fancy figure on which Miss Jones had brought her up, chattered happily to her mother about her doings, convinced that she was interested, and Adela did not disillusion her. It was an exquisite period, too, for Fred and Jessie, as they watched Meggie grow in wisdom and understanding without losing her child’s faith in the beauty of human nature nor her eagerness for life. Sometimes, when Miss Jones was over-tired, a pang that was a physical pain would grip her. Meggie would be fifteen soon. Would Adela not think she should be educated abroad, and pounce on the Vicarage and remove her?

  The outbreak of war at least killed that dread; there could be no finishing abroad now, nor indeed any coming out. The village was flooded with evacuees. Miss Jones became only partly a governess, there was so much to do billeting the Londoners. Before Meggie’s sixteenth birthday she too was helping—half-time lessons and half-time work in the garden. Jessie’s beloved flowers were relegated to two small beds and an odd plant or two which had escaped a spade, and she, Miss Jones, and Meggie grew whatever the Ministry of Food broadcasted was most needed. Meggie also helped look after the hens and three hives of bees. Life in the Vicarage was so busy that Miss Jones had little time to think, but when she did it was comfortable thoughts. Meggie was obviously useful where she was. There seemed no likelihood of Adela wishing to uproot her.

  Meggie’s letter was like a bomb. Life, in spite of the war, was placid in the Vicarage. Miss Jones sighed at descriptions of the bombings of the large towns, but supposed she knew what the sufferings of the townspeople were like, and when two stray bombs fell in the village and demolished a barn, was certain that she now knew from first-hand experience. Being suddenly busy at urgent work creates a certain complacency. The war was ghastly, but Miss Jones only had time to think about it when she heard the news on the wireless. This complacency had enwrapped her too in regard to Meggie: she shared Meggie with Fred and Jessie, but hers was the last word on most questions concerning her welfare. Meggie was to all intents her child.

  Meggie crouched down on her haunches.

  “What’s the matter, Jonesy? You’ve been staring at me and saying nothing for simply ages.”

  Miss Jones blinked, and saw the letter that had set her thinking. She folded it and passed it back to Meggie, and got up.

  “I was day-dreaming. A shocking habit.” She glanced at her watch. “And it’s a quarter-past nine and I’ve the rest of this cupboard to get through before lessons.”

  “Shall I get my frock out? Aunt Jessie thought you might want to pack.”

  Miss Jones’s head was inside the shelf.

  “I shall pack to-night.”

  Meggie lingered, her tone was wistful.

  “I don’t believe you want me to go. I don’t believe Aunt Jessie does either.”

  Miss Jones’s voice was muffled by the cupboard.

  “That’s natural enough. Don’t want you in London with all these air raids.”

  “Air raids? I never thought of them. Oh, Jonesy, do you know, I hope there is one. Of course I don’t want people to be killed or anything like that, but I would like to be properly in one once. I hate not knowing if I’d be afraid, and not knowing what it’s like.”

  “Eighteen pillow-slips.” Miss Jones withdrew her head. “How many of these old pillow-slips did Mrs. F. give to the cottage hospital?”

  “Four. It’s all they asked for. Don’t you want to know what one’s like?”

  “Thank you, I’ve had all the air raids I need here, without running to London.”

  Meggie laughed.

  “Aren’t you silly. We’ve never had a proper air raid; buildings falling and burying people, screams and smoke, and ambulances trying to get through, and often only dead people when they get there; and the fires, think of the fires!”

  Miss Jones counted up to fifteen.

  “There are three of the new pillow-cases missing. Now I wonder who Mrs. F.’s given those to? They say you hear the bombs more clearly in the country. Anyway, I expect a lot of what you read is exaggerated.”

  Meggie’s voice was faintly amused in a loving way.

  “You haven’t seen London since the raids started—I have.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t brood about it.”

  Meggie made an impulsive movement as if about to argue, then she stopped herself and hung over the banister and whistled. There was a scurry of feet on the hall oilcloth, and Hardy, slobbering with eagerness to do anything, flung himself up the stairs. Meggie played with one of his orange ears.

  “If I’m going to London to-morrow I’d better go to Mr. Rose to-day or I mightn’t get those bits he promised for Hardy’s Sunday dinner.”

  Miss Jones made an effort. She did not want to seem grudging over this London trip. It was so easy to spoil things for Meggie.

  “As this is a special occasion, we won’t start lessons until ten, and you can get on your bicycle and go down to Mr. Rose now.”

  Meggie lit up. It was as if an electric switch had been turned on.

  “Jonesy, you angel!” She hugged Miss Jones’s ankles. “And you are pleased about my party really, aren’t you?”

  “You leave my legs alone or you’ll have me off the ladder. Of course I’m pleased you should go to a party; it’s only I don’t think London’s very safe. Run along now, and ask Mrs. F. if she wants anything as you’re going to the shops.”
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  Aunt Jessie wanted nothing, nor did cook. The vicarage and church lay at the extreme end of the village. Meggie, with Hardy trotting beside her, rode along, singing as she went, marvelling at the glory of the morning. It was a late spring, in fact it took visionary looking to know it was spring at all. The trees were gaunt and bare against a watery blue sky, across which an icy wind blew masses of heavy clouds. The catkins looked cold, and the scillas, grape-hyacinths, and crocuses in the cottage gardens showed signs of the labour it had been to push through the frozen earth. At the end of the lane, where the village proper began, Meggie saw the doctor’s car. It was outside the inn, The Marquis. She got off her bicycle. Wetherby, the innkeeper, and his wife and the Wetherby sons and daughters were friends. She had heard nothing of their being ill. She leant her bicycle against the inn wall and waited for the doctor. She had not long to wait. He came out and got into his car without seeing her. She hung through the window.

  “Good-morning, Dr. Spooner. Who’s ill?”

  “They’ve had bad news. Tom’s missing. Drowned, I’m afraid.”

  All pleasure drained out of Meggie, leaving her without resistance to suffering, which swept over her like a tide.

  “Oh, my goodness! The poor Wetherbys!”

  The doctor patted her hand.

  “These things must happen in a war, you know.” He saw her face and held one of her hands. “As I’ve told you before, you help nobody by minding too much about other people’s troubles.”