by Jan Struther
For the last eight years the opening names had not varied at all: Clem, Vin, Judy, Toby, Nannie, Mrs. Adie, Mrs. Downce, Downce. The ninth name had changed, at intervals of about two years, from Norah to Jessie, from Jessie to Gladys, and from Gladys to Ellen: for there seemed to be something fatally marriageable, as well as incurably trochaic, about the Minivers’ house-parlourmaids. Even Ellen, as unglamorous a girl as you could wish to meet, who had come to them a few months ago completely heart-whole, had already acquired a young man. Clem, to whom Mrs. Miniver had broken this news in a letter, had written back saying, “For Heaven’s sake, next time, go for a dactyl or a monosyllable. They may have less S.A.”
As the lists went farther back, however, important gaps appeared. Nine years ago there had been no Toby; twelve years ago, no Judy. Yet at each of these Christmases, she remembered, her universe (which would now be unthinkable without them) had seemed complete. As for Vin, he figured in all the lists except the first two; and as she traced his presents backwards from last year’s spinning-rod through conjuring sets and Red Indian outfits to the woolly rabbit of fifteen years ago, she felt that she was seeing the whole story of his childhood in reverse, like one of those trick films where the spilt milk pours itself back into the jug.
She laid down the sheets on top of each other, one by one. Vin grew up again before her mind’s eye: became three, four, in a sun-suit and a floppy linen hat; became seven, eight, in grey flannel shorts (so like, and yet so unlike, Toby); became twelve, thirteen, in long trousers; shot upwards past her elbow, her shoulder, her head; and finally grinned down at her from six inches above it (so like, and yet so unlike, Clem).
Parallel with this memory-film ran another, whose only visible track was the column of prices on the right-hand side of the page. Amplified by her recollection, these scribbled figures made a pretty accurate record of the Miniver family’s material ups and downs. There was the lavishness of the first two years, based on youthful ignorance, a fixed salary, and a regular parental allowance; there were the soberer standards which became necessary when Clem started out on his own; there were the deceptive early successes, the too optimistic move to a larger house. Then the slump, the difficult years; the years when an acute appendicitis seemed to take a malevolent pleasure in coinciding with an ultimatum from the bank; when they tossed on the horns of the professional classes’ eternal dilemma—whether to retrench openly or to bluff things out for the sake of keeping up appearances in front of potential clients. The years when, after dining out, they said, No, thanks, they’d rather walk and pick up a taxi, it would be so nice to get a breath of air; and when their Christmas presents to each other (since they couldn’t cut down too drastically on anybody else’s) dwindled by mutual consent into mere tokens, which they exchanged in front of the children with elaborate ceremony, delighted exclamations, and a great deal of coloured wrapping-paper. Not that they needed tokens; but it would have shocked the children if they had exchanged nothing at all.
Things had looked up again, eventually. Clem had built an unusual country house for Sandro Baltman, and Sandro talked, and that set the ball rolling fast. By the time Toby was born they had been able to buy Starlings and to get the Downces to look after it. The tokens had expanded into proper presents again, and ever since then the total at the bottom of the right-hand column had been getting a little larger every year. But both of them, fortunately, had good memories: and when young married couples came to dine with them, they always said, “Yes, of course; you’re sure to find one on the rank just round the corner.”
Mrs. Miniver put the last sheet back on top of the others and clipped them all together again. No, she could not possibly throw them away: they contained too much of her life. Besides, however clear one’s memories seemed to be, it did one no harm to polish them up from time to time. One is what one remembers: no more, no less.
She took a clean sheet of paper and wrote across the top in neat block capitals:
“CHRISTMAS 1939.”
About the Author
Jan Struther was the pen name of Joyce Anstruther, later Joyce Maxtone Graham, and finally Joyce Placzek, a writer remembered for her character Mrs. Miniver and a number of hymns, including “Lord of All Hopefulness.” During the 1930s, Struther became known as the author of stylish poems and essays for Punch, and Peter Fleming of the Times asked her to create a character whose doings would enliven the Court Page of the paper: “an ordinary sort of woman who leads an ordinary sort of life—rather like yourself.” In fact, Struther was very far from ordinary: She was tiny, very pretty, and bursting with unconventional zest and enthusiasm (two of her favorite words). The collected articles, which had become enormously popular, were published as Mrs. Miniver in 1939, shortly after the outbreak of World War II. Soon afterward, Struther went to lecture in America, where Mrs. Miniver became a much-loved Hollywood film starring Greer Garson. President Roosevelt told Struther that the book had hastened America’s entry into the war, and Churchill was to declare that it had done more for the Allies than a flotilla of battleships.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1969 by the Estate of Jan Struther
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5808-7
This edition published in 2019 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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