by Sylvia Waugh
Next, Soobie rearranged the junk that could not be packed away into what he would call a ‘tidy mess’. Within two hours the place began to look much more habitable. Then, and only then, did Soobie allow himself to lift the pile of books, about seven or eight in all, from their place in the corner onto the round table. There they would stay till the visitor arrived and Soobie would pass the time in looking at them by candlelight. He resisted the temptation even to read titles. Later, later. Soobie made his own rules and kept them to the letter.
Now, he thought, when all that had been done, I will see what mess is hiding behind that curtain. He unhooked it from the rafter at the end furthest away from the outer wall. Then he let it fall to the floor. In the other half of the attic there was another skylight, still dirty, but the filtered sunshine picked out no mess, no rubble, just two very large wicker chests. This, Soobie thought, was not the normal way of things. The tidy room is not usually hidden behind the room full of rubbish. It is always the other way round. The rubbish might well have been hidden behind a curtain, with the other half of the attic available for use. Unless . . . unless the chests themselves held some secret. His extensive reading made him wary of things hidden in chests in attics. He approached warily, preparing himself to be shocked or horrified.
The first chest he opened was a complete anticlimax. Bales of beautiful cloth vertically arranged so that any one of them could be easily drawn out and inspected. Soobie did just that and found himself looking at a familiar pattern that reminded him of Tulip. Vinetta would be delighted with this windfall. There would surely be enough cloth here to clothe them all twice over. He carefully replaced the bale he had removed.
The second chest was identical to the first. But when Soobie raised the lid he was startled to see, first of all, two pink legs wearing black patent leather shoes on their feet. Feeling just a little bit squeamish, he lifted them out carefully and put them on the floor. Next came two arms twined together. The hands were even better than his mother’s – the finger joints had natural-looking lines across them and the finger-nails were bedded in and did not look at all false. He laid them down very gently.
Next there was the headless torso. It was dressed in a Fair Isle patterned jumper, and roughly fastened round its middle was an unfinished short, grey pleated skirt. Soobie lifted the body very carefully. It had been lying on its front. When he turned it over he found pinned to its chest with a very large safety pin a label with the name ‘Nuova Pilbeam’ written neatly on it.
Poor, unfinished Nuova Pilbeam. It was an odd name, thought Soobie. No one in the family ever knew where his or her name came from, or even why the family name was Mennym. Yet each one had only one forename. If Nuova Pilbeam had been a Mennym she would have been the only one with two first names. Then he remembered that ‘nuova’ was Italian for ‘new’. So this was, or would have been, the new member of his family, and if she had been finished her name would have been Pilbeam. A beautiful name! It was sad.
Some day, thought Soobie, I’ll tell Mother about Pilbeam, but not now. Albert Pond was worry enough. Till he had been and gone again, other concerns would be suppressed. Thoughtfully, feeling the pity that was so much part of him, Soobie laid Pilbeam’s body, arms and legs neatly on the floor beside the basket. Only the head was missing. With a shiver, but feeling unable to draw back, Soobie leant over the side of the basket and, looking down, he saw a bundle loosely wrapped in pale blue tissue paper. Using both hands widespread he lifted it out, handling it with the reverence due to something precious. Laying it on the floor, he proceeded to remove the wrappings. Soon he found himself gazing at a pale face with thick black braids either side of cheeks that each showed a spot of unnatural red. Pink lips that had never yet moved were stitched in fine satin thread in such a neat, compact blanket stitch that, in the attic light, they looked completely real. Arched black eyebrows surmounted long black eyelashes that swept upwards. Finer, lower lashes touched Pilbeam’s painted cheeks. But where the eyes should have been there was a blank, unseeing space.
Soobie rummaged in the tissue paper till something pierced his finger. Looking down he found he was holding a brilliant black bead stuck on a metal pin stem. It was truly beautiful, lozenge-shaped, flecked with silver and with a deep, deep black centre to represent the pupil. Another bead, the same in every detail, was still lying in the paper. He held them both, one between each thumb and forefinger. Gazing down at Pilbeam’s face, he suddenly knew what to do, a first promise, a step forward. He turned the pins towards the eyespaces and very deliberately pushed them into their centres. The face with its eyes complete looked much more real.
With melancholy respect, Soobie put the torso back into the chest with the arms and legs neatly by its side. Then he spread the blue tissue paper on top and laid Pilbeam’s head on it. The black eyes seemed to look up at him, dazed and fearful.
“Don’t,” cried Soobie with a sob in his throat. “Don’t worry. Sleep now. I’ll come back for you some day when Albert Pond has gone.”
Then he closed the lid and tried to pretend to himself that he did not really hear a deep and troubled sigh.
Perhaps, thought Soobie, Mother will be able to finish her. But not yet. Soobie made his own rules and he stuck to them. Nothing could be allowed to come between the Mennyms and the visit of Albert Pond.
16
* * *
The Hi-jack
ON THE TWENTY-FIFTH of March, the family, with the usual exceptions, were sitting in front of the television set in the lounge watching the six o’clock news. Soon March would be April and the suspense was growing greater.
“Scientists in California claim they have found evidence . . .” the news-reader was saying. But no one was really listening. They hardly ever did.
“You’d have thought we’d have heard something by now,” Vinetta was saying, “even if it was just a seaside postcard.”
“Perhaps he won’t come after all,” said Soobie in a voice that sounded far from convincing. Then he went back to the book he was reading and took no further notice.
“Of course he’ll come,” said Joshua irritably. “He’ll just arrive on the doorstep one day and then it will be panic stations.”
“Reports are coming in of a hi-jack aboard a DC10 airliner en route from Australia via Cairo . . .”
“What was that?” said Appleby, trying to draw attention to the latest news.
“Wimpey!” snapped Vinetta, “stop drawing on your tights. Are you trying to make work for me?”
Wimpey was sitting right in front of the television set, her white-ribbed legs stretched out in front of her. She had drawn a happy face on one kneecap and was drawing a sad one on the other when Vinetta spotted what she was doing.
“In Mainland China . . . .” droned the voice on the TV, passing to the next piece of news.
“Put that off,” said Granny Tulip, looking up from her knitting. “It’s always the same old thing, day after day, and nothing to do with us anyway. I don’t know why we bother with television.”
Poopie, who had been playing with his Action Man in the far corner of the room, threaded his way through to the television set, knocking over Granny’s wool basket and slyly thumping Wimpey on the way.
“When we have any further news of the DC10 hi-jacking . . .” The newsreader was stopped in mid-sentence as Poopie turned off the set.
“There,” he said frowning round at them all. “Now we’ll have a bit of peace.”
“Listen to him!” said Tulip in delight. “Sounds just like his granpa. Children these days!”
Soobie, in his armchair by the window, looked up briefly from his book and slowly shook his head from side to side. He forebore to say, “He’s had forty years of practice.” But his expression said it for him, though only Joshua noticed.
“What if . . .” began Appleby in an unusually thoughtful voice. When she didn’t finish, it was Tulip who snapped at her, “What if what?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Appleby. “It�
�s silly. Nothing at all.”
“Suit yourself,” said Tulip going back to her knitting.
It was the family hour. Forty years of tradition put them all in one room at least till seven o’clock when the twins were sent to bed and everyone else was free to follow his or her own occupation. Joshua would set out for work. Tulip would go to her room and Vinetta would have her own private pretend in the kitchen.
A few days later, on the first of April to be precise, Joshua, coming home from work in the morning, picked up a letter from the mat inside the front door. An airmail. With a foreign stamp on it. A very thin letter. No weight at all.
He peered earnestly at the stamp but was none the wiser.
“Where’s that fellow now?” he muttered to himself.
“Vinetta!” he called through to the kitchen. “There’s an airmail letter here. I wonder you haven’t seen it?”
Vinetta came into the hall where the grandfather clock was fidgeting around to tell the world it was eight o’clock.
“Didn’t hear the postman,” she said. “Here. Give it to me.”
She took the letter and examined the outside thoroughly. The stamp was Egyptian. Date smudged. Envelope very thin. Might well have been empty. Carefully she shook it down and tore along one side. Then she opened it into a pouch and fished out a single, small thin sheet of pink paper.
“Oh dear!” she exclaimed as she read it. “How awful for the poor man! He must have been terrified.”
Hearing Vinetta gasp and go on so, Tulip came hurrying from the breakfast room and even Soobie was curious enough to emerge from the lounge.
Tulip took the flimsy sheet from Vinetta’s hands.
“Dear Family,” she read aloud to all of them. “Written in haste. Hi-jackers have just released us from the plane in Cairo. Suppose you’ll have heard about it on the news. Will write at length later. Still hoping to meet you. Sorry for the delay! Regards, Albert.”
“Poor boy,” said Tulip. “What must he have gone through?”
“Still,” said Soobie with less sympathy and more practicality, “at least he won’t be coming here for a while longer.”
“If ever,” said Joshua hopefully. “Maybe he’ll just go back where he came from. I know I would if I were in his shoes.”
“Save that stamp for Appleby,” said Tulip. “It’ll go in the All the World album I bought for her last birthday.”
Appleby, of course, was still in bed.
17
* * *
Albert’s Adventures
NOTHING WAS HEARD from Albert Pond till the middle of May. At first everyone had kept looking at the doormat expecting to see an airmail letter there any day. Poopie took to getting up early especially to see the postman arrive. He wanted to be first with the letter. He wanted to shout about it at the top of his voice and run upstairs with it to Granpa. That would show Appleby! But after a fortnight of vain expectation, the novelty wore off and they all went back to their normal routine.
When the letter did arrive it was actually Miss Quigley who spotted it. She had been paying a morning visit to the Mennyms: coffee and those delicious little biscuits, and how much better the weather has been, and how much nicer Appleby looks with her hair combed down, and how is Joshua doing now he’s back at Sydenham’s, and I really must be going now . . .
So, with not a little secret relief, Vinetta took her guest to the front door, ushering Miss Quigley ahead of her.
“Your postman’s been,” said Miss Quigley, stooping down with surprising sprightliness to pick the letter off the mat and hand it to Vinetta. “Airmail, I see,” she added.
Vinetta looked at the envelope. The stamp was Indian, definitely Indian. What on earth was Albert Pond up to now? Even Vinetta’s rather patchy knowledge of geography told her that India was further away than Egypt. She hardly dared to let herself think what that might mean. It seemed too good to be true.
“And when will we be seeing you again, Hortensia?” asked Vinetta, holding the front door wide open, but calling Miss Quigley by her first name in an effort to show how friendly she was. “Don’t make it too long this time.”
Ever since the whole business of Albert Pond’s visit had started, Miss Quigley had stayed away, brooding in her cupboard for weeks on end and then appearing briefly, pretending that she was so busy at her own little home in Trevethick Street that she just couldn’t find time to come calling.
She didn’t answer Vinetta’s question directly. She just smiled uncertainly, eyed the letter with regret and apprehension, and made a swift departure from the front door with the barest of goodbyes. A few minutes later, when she glided silently in through the back door, she was looking very resentful and she even closed her cupboard door more loudly than usual.
Vinetta took the letter straight to the breakfast room. Joshua was lying down upstairs and she didn’t want to disturb him. Sir Magnus, whom she had left in his bedroom with his desk on his lap and his pillows piled high behind him, would be sure to want to call a meeting and Vinetta couldn’t face that yet. But she wanted to share the letter with someone, and Tulip was, after all, the handiest.
“On his way home by sea, I shouldn’t wonder,” said the old lady, peering at the stamp. “Not be in a hurry to get back in an aeroplane again after what he’s been through. I know I wouldn’t be.”
“Well, let’s find out,” said Vinetta, growing impatient. The letter was quite bulky and very stiff.
Tulip took her pearl-handled paper knife and slit the envelope. Out fell several pages of paper and a photograph.
Vinetta picked up the photograph. It was a full-length picture of a girl who looked like a fashion model. She had long, golden hair and a big toothy smile. She was wearing a wide purple cape over a black outfit of which the most that could be seen was a pair of tight-fitting trousers and shoes with square gold buckles.
Vinetta turned the picture over. On the other side were scrawled the words This is Hildegarde, taken at a fashion show in Paris.
“Hildegarde,” mused Vinetta. “Must be his girlfriend. And about time too!”
Tulip adjusted her spectacles and began to read the letter:
Dear Family,
So many things to tell you. Don’t rightly know where to begin. At the end maybe. My Ma used to hate being kept waiting for the punch line to a story. I remember her now, when I’d come home from school with some tale or other saying, “Get on with it, then. What’s happened? Never mind the trimmings.”
So, getting on with it, let me tell you first and foremost, I am married. Not courting, not engaged. But honest to goodness married. There! I bet that took the wind out of your sails after all I said about having no intentions in that direction. Well, it was true at the time. And even now I scarce know what’s hit me. But I do know that when I look at Hildegarde I feel like I am the happiest man alive. And all because of a hi-jacking!
I’ll skip the terrifying bit. Though I don’t mind telling you, it scared me stiff. Yet, you know, when you’re one of a crowd and all you have to do is take orders, you become more dazed than anything else, like a zombie.
There was this girl in the seat next to mine and we settled for being terrified together. They told us not to speak. So we didn’t. They told us not to move. So we stayed still. I don’t mind admitting, I wouldn’t be in line for a medal. In all fairness, though, it’s not just a question of being brave in that sort of situation. No matter how brave I’d been, I still wouldn’t have known what to do.
When it was all over and the terrorists had been persuaded to let us passengers leave, all I remember is stumbling across the runway at Cairo airport steering this beautiful girl by the arm. When we reached the airport lounge, she began to cry as if she’d never stop.
We had a drink or two and sat there waiting for what would happen next. Then suddenly Hildegarde, the girl I’m telling you about, said that nothing on this God’s earth would get her back on any plane again. She’s always been frightened of flying even though she’s bee
n all over the world as a fashion model. This last flight finally put the tin lid on it.
“I’m going home,” she said, holding my sleeve, “and nothing, but nothing, will persuade me to leave Oz again as long as I live.”
So by the time I’d told her how I’d take care of her and we’d go home together by sea, we were just about engaged. It took a few days to get things organised, but eventually we got ourselves onto a cruise liner sailing to Australia down through the Indian Ocean. Just before we put in at Bombay, Hildegarde and I were married by the ship’s captain.
Of course, you know what this means, don’t you? Unless my dear wife (marvellous word that!) changes her mind, and I don’t see that as being on the cards in the near future, I’ll have to pass up my chance to visit the old country and meet my English family. Best we can do is keep in touch by mail. I’ve put one of Hildegarde’s fashion photos in with this letter so you can see the beautiful girl I’ve married. Perhaps you could send me a family photograph or two to let me see what you all look like. I can’t tell you how disappointed I am that my visit had to be cancelled like this. Fate plays funny tricks. It obviously wasn’t meant to be, as my Ma used to say.
Still, if I hadn’t planned to visit you all, if you hadn’t encouraged me to come as you did, I might never have set out in the first place. Then Hildegarde and I would never have met. So I’ve got a lot to thank you for, putting me in the right place at the right time, though I don’t mind admitting it didn’t seem quite the right place when I was staring at the airplane floor thinking we were all going to be blown up any minute!
I’ve told my wife (there’s that word again!) all about you and she too will be pleased to hear from you any time you can manage to drop us a line or two. We have some family visits to make after we land, but we expect to be home by the end of June. Take care of yourselves.
