Copyright © 2012 by the Estate of D. E. Stevenson
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First published in 1936 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd. Previously published in the UK in 2010 by Persephone Books Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily).
Miss Buncle married / D.E. Stevenson.
p. cm.
“First published in 1936 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd. Previously published in the UK in 2010 by Persephone Books Ltd.”—T.p. verso.
(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Miss Buncle (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women authors, English—Fiction. 3. Newlyweds—Fiction. 4. Moving, Household—Fiction. 5. City and town life—England—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6037.T458M56 2012
823’.912—dc23
2012022252
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
An excerpt from Miss Buncle’s Book
About the Author
Back Cover
Dedicated to those who liked
Miss Buncle and asked for more.
Chapter One
Mr. and Mrs. Abbott
“We had better move,” said Mr. Abbott casually. Mrs. Abbott’s hand was arrested in midair as it went toward the handle of the coffee pot. Her gray eyes widened, her mouth opened (displaying a set of exceptionally fine teeth) and remained open, but no sound came. The pleasant dining-room was very quiet, a fire burned briskly in the grate, the pale wintry sunshine flowed in at the window onto the red and blue Turkey carpet, the carved oak furniture and the motionless forms of Mr. and Mrs. Abbott sitting at the breakfast table. On the table the silver glittered and the china shone—as china does when it is well washed and polished by careful hands. It was a Sunday morning, as could easily be deduced from the lateness of the hour and the unnatural quiet outside as well as inside the Abbotts’ small, but comfortable, house.
“I said we had better move,” Mr. Abbott repeated.
“Yes—I thought you said that,” declared Mrs. Abbott incredulously.
Mr. Abbott lowered his paper and looked at his wife over the top of his spectacles. It was a Sunday paper, of course, and Mr. Abbott had been glancing over the publishers’ announcements. He was a publisher himself so the advertisements interested him very much, but did not deceive him. The news that Messrs. Faction 8c Whiting were publishing the Greatest Novel of the Century, crammed with Adventure, scintillating with Brilliance, and bubbling with Humor merely roused in Mr. Abbott’s bosom a faint kind of wonder as to what they paid their advertising agent. He put down the paper without regret, and looked at his wife, and, as he looked at her, he smiled because she was nice to look at, and because he loved her, and because she amused and interested him enormously. They had been married for nine months now, and sometimes he thought he knew her through and through, and sometimes he thought he didn’t know the first thing about her—theirs was a most satisfactory marriage.
“Yes, I said ‘move,’” he repeated (in what Barbara Abbott secretly called “Arthur’s smiling voice”). “Why not move, Barbara? It would solve all our difficulties at one blow. We could have a nice house, further out of town, with a nice garden—trees and things,” added Mr. Abbott, waving his hand vaguely, as if to conjure up the nice house before Barbara’s eyes, and the queer thing was he succeeded. Barbara immediately beheld a nice house with a nice garden, further out of town. The whole thing rose before her eyes in a sort of vision—lawns and trees and flower beds with roses in them, and a nice house in the middle—all bathed in sunshine.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly, “yes, why not? If you wouldn’t mind leaving Sunnydene—there’s no reason, I mean—”
“Exactly,” nodded her husband, “you see. There’s no reason at all, and it would solve all our difficulties.”
They looked at each other and grinned a little self-consciously—their difficulties were so absurd. Had any two, apparently sane, people ever landed themselves in such a foolish, ridiculous mess?
The human mind is a marvelous organism. While Mr. Abbott was still grinning a trifle self-consciously at his wife, he returned through time and saw the events of the last twenty-four hours in a flash. He helped himself to more marmalade, and thought, queer, if I hadn’t drunk any of Mrs. Cluloe’s port (and why did I when I knew it would be rubbish—you can’t trust port in a woman’s house—I knew that and yet, like a fool, I drank it). If I hadn’t drunk any of Mrs. Cluloe’s port, I wouldn’t have had a ghastly headache all yesterday, and if I hadn’t had a ghastly headache all yesterday, I wouldn’t be suggesting to Barbara that we should move. It is queer!
“What are you thinking about, Arthur?” Mrs. Abbott inquired.
“Yesterday,” replied her husband succinctly.
Yesterday morning, Mr. Abbott had risen with a dreadful headache. He rose late, bolted his breakfast, and rushed for the 8:57 train to town. It was imperative that he should catch the 8:57 because he had an important interview with Mr. Shillingsworth. If Mr. Abbott was not in the office when Mr. Shillingsworth arrived—there and waiting, all smiles and joviality—there would be trouble. It was all the more annoying because the day was Saturday, and Mr. Abbott usually took Saturdays off and played golf with John Hutson, who lived next door and had exactly the same handicap as his own. Mr. Abbott had had to put o
ff John Hutson the night before and rush up to town, with a bad headache, at Mr. Shillingsworth’s behest.
Mr. Shillingsworth was a well-known novelist, and Mr. Abbott was his publisher. Mr. Shillingsworth gave Messrs. Abbott & Spicer more trouble, and caused them more annoyance than all their other authors put together, but they hung on to him, and placated and soothed him because his books sold. (Personally Mr. Abbott was of the opinion that Shillingsworth’s books were tripe, but they undoubtedly sold.) The new novel was frightful rubbish—they all thought so at the office—but they had decided to take it all the same, because, if they didn’t take it, somebody else would, and somebody else would make a good deal of money over it, and Messrs. Abbott & Spicer would lose Shillingsworth forever.
Mr. Abbott thought of all this going up in the train, and it annoyed him intensely—he hated publishing rubbish—and what with his hurry, and his headache, and the loss of his morning’s golf and his annoyance over Shillingsworth’s rubbish, he arrived at the office in a most unenviable condition.
“What on earth’s up with the boss?” demanded Mr. Abbott’s private secretary, bursting out of Mr. Abbott’s private room like a bomb. “I never saw him ‘so het up.’ He threw the letters at me and told me to go back to school, because I made a slip and spelled omitted with two Ms.”
“Marriage, that’s what,” said the head clerk, who was a bachelor. “Marriage. You mark my words, he’ll never be the same again.”
Mr. Abbott was all honey to Mr. Shillingsworth (when he arrived fifty minutes late for his appointment). It was a frightful effort to be all honey, and it left Mr. Abbott with arrears of bad temper to work off on his next visitor. His head ached much worse by this time, and he was beginning to feel a little sick. So when Mr. Spicer, the junior partner of the firm, looked in for a chat, and sat on the edge of Mr. Abbott’s desk, smoking his foul pipe and swinging one leg in a dégagé manner, Mr. Abbott did not welcome him as cordially as usual.
Mr. Spicer was quite oblivious of the thunderous atmosphere. He chatted cheerfully about various matters, and then, quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing that had been said, he poked Mr. Abbott in the ribs and inquired slyly—“What about another John Smith—eh? Is there another John Smith coming along soon?”
“No,” said Mr. Abbott shortly.
“Oh come now, that’s bad. That won’t do at all,” Spicer complained, “you must stir up your wife. You mustn’t let her slack off like this. We can do with another bestseller like Disturber of the Peace; it went like hotcakes—you know that yourself—and The Pen Is Mightier— is doing splendidly. I ordered the sixth edition today. We must have another book by John Smith—the time is ripe—you tell her to get to work on another of the same ilk.”
“No,” said Mr. Abbott again.
Mr. Spicer rushed upon his fate. “I’ll tell you what to do,” he said cheerfully, “buy her a new pen—a nice fat one—and a big sheaf of nice white paper, and see what that does. If that doesn’t do the trick—”
“You mind your own business,” snapped Mr. Abbott, “you leave my wife alone. There aren’t going to be anymore John Smiths. My wife isn’t going to write anymore—why should she?”
“But, land-sakes!” cried Spicer, in surprise and consternation, “John Smith is a bestseller. Surely you’re not going to stop her writing. Think of the waste,” cried Spicer, almost wringing his hands, “think of the waste. Here are two books, the funniest—bar none—I’ve ever read—real satire—and you say there aren’t going to be anymore. She must go on writing—she’s got a public. She’s a genius—and you marry her, and shut her up in your kitchen, and tell her to get on with the cooking.”
This last was a joke, of course, but Mr. Abbott was in no mood for jokes. He beat on the table with his clenched fist.
“She’s not cooking, you fool!” he cried, “she’s enjoying herself—dinner parties, bridge—”
“My God!” said Mr. Spicer reverently. He got down off the table and went away.
Mr. Abbott mopped his brow—this is ghastly, he thought, this is ghastly. I never felt like this before—never. What on earth’s the matter with me? It’s all these damned dinners, and late nights. I’m too old to stand the racket. (Too old at forty-three—it was a sad thought, a frightful thought, really. It didn’t comfort Mr. Abbott at all.)
Chapter Two
A Strange Dilemma
Mr. Abbott caught an early train home (he was quite unfit for any more business) and found Barbara pouring out tea in the drawing-room. She was alone for a wonder, and Mr. Abbott was thankful; he sank into an easy chair with a groan of relief.
Barbara looked up and smiled. “There you are!” she said, “I’m awfully glad you’re so nice and early. We’re dining with Mrs. Copthorne tonight.”
“Hell!” said Mr. Abbott.
Barbara was amazed. She had never heard her Arthur swear with real fervor and emphasis before (he was a very even-tempered man as a rule, quiet, kind, and reliable). Barbara was struck dumb.
“Hell,” said Mr. Abbott again, louder and more emphatically, “Hell, hell, hell!”
“Don’t you want to go, Arthur?” inquired Barbara, somewhat unnecessarily.
The simple question was the last straw on the camel’s back, or, to take an even better metaphor, the question was the last pint of water that burst the dam. Mr. Abbott’s dam burst, and a flood of eloquence poured forth over Barbara’s defenseless head. Mr. Abbott got up and walked about the room, knocking against chairs and incidental tables in his blind passage, and all the time the flood of eloquence continued. He told Barbara all he had suffered and endured, he told her exactly how he felt about dinner parties, with bridge to follow, and exactly how he felt about the friends of whose hospitality he and Barbara had partaken in the last few months. He inveighed against their rapacity at bridge, and the third-rate quality of the port and cigars they supplied. His diatribe veered from the general to the particular, and then back to the general again.
It took a long time, and a great deal of energy, and when Mr. Abbott finally ended with the distressing statement: “This life is killing me, killing me, I tell you”—he was quite breathless, and somewhat ashamed. The outburst had done him good, and he began to realize that it was not Arthur Abbott who had been speaking—not Arthur Abbott at all. It was some other Being, a suffering Being, an illogical, unreasonable, irritable Being, who had usurped Arthur Abbott’s body and had ridden it all day long. This Being had behaved quite extraordinarily badly all day long; had been rude to Mr. Abbott’s secretary (a most estimable and quite invaluable young woman); had quarreled senselessly with Mr. Abbott’s partner; and now, to crown everything, was bullying Mr. Abbott’s wife.
“But Arthur,” Barbara inquired again, when the flow of eloquence had ceased. “But Arthur, don’t you like it—the dinners and bridge and things? I thought you liked it. Why do we do it if you don’t like it?”
“Why do we do it?” echoed Mr. Abbott, stopping short in his pacing, and gazing at her in amazement.
“Yes, why do we?”
“We do it because you like it, of course,” Arthur told her in calmer accents. The Being that had ridden him all day was seeping out of him now. Barbara was having a curiously soothing effect upon his tortured nerves. “It’s all right,” he continued. “It’s quite all right, Barbara. Don’t take any notice of what I said. It’s just that I’ve had a frightful headache all day, and everything has been rather—”
“But I don’t like it either,” said Barbara simply.
“You—you don’t like it either!”
“I hate it, really,” she replied, “I’m no good at bridge, you see, and it bores me rather. I’ve done my best to get better at it. I’ve had lessons and I’ve read Culbertson till my head swims, but it doesn’t seem to do me much good—”
“But Barbara—”
She swept on—“
I was wondering how I was going to go on bearing it forever and ever, but if you don’t like going out to parties and playing bridge then we needn’t.”
Arthur Abbott gazed at his wife in amazement, which gradually gave place to amusement—she was a priceless person, his Barbara. Life was so simple to her; she was so matter-of-fact, so absolutely and peerlessly sane. He began to laugh, and Barbara laughed too—her laughter was from relief. She was tremendously relieved to discover that she need no longer look forward with dismay to thirty years of dining and bridging with her neighbors. (It might have been even more than thirty years, she reflected, because Mrs. Copthorne was sixty-five if she was a day, and she still played bridge, and played quite a sound game, and held the most devastating post-mortems over every hand. At sixty-five, Barbara thought, you really ought to be beyond caring so frightfully if your partner, in a moment of absentmindedness, trumped your trick. You ought to be knitting socks for your grandchildren or something like that.)
“Why on earth didn’t you say you hated it all before?” Mr. Abbott inquired when at last he could speak. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” retorted Barbara.
“I thought you were enjoying it.”
“And I thought you were. After all they were all your friends,” Barbara pointed out, “so, of course, I thought you liked them. They called on me and invited us, and, of course, we had to ask them back—”
“And then they asked us again,” put in Arthur.
“So we had to ask them again,” Barbara added.
“Are you sure?” Arthur inquired, smitten by a sudden horrible suspicion. “Are you quite sure you’re not just saying it—I mean it isn’t just because you think that I—”
“I’m sure,” she replied, nodding vigorously, “quite, quite sure. It was a sort of nightmare.”
It was a little while before they were able to convince themselves and each other of their sincerity, but eventually they realized that they were in complete accord. Both craved quiet evenings by their own fireside; both were bored by dinner parties and bridge.
Miss Buncle Married Page 1
