Dolly's Mixture

by Dorothy Scannell

  Perhaps the woman below, childless, was a bit jealous of Ade, and particularly of Ade’s washing. Ade was one of those people certain advertisers would have loved, for her washing was always whiter than white, except that hers was really the result of elbow-grease and conscientious washing and rinsing, and not a miracle powder. In her flat the windows were large and long and for privacy’s sake – it was fashionable then, too – she dressed her windows with white lace curtains. These were her pride, they must always be clean and starched, so she laundered them often.

  The flat had no running water but in the yard was a wash-house shared by the occupants of the large house’s three flats. Each had the use of it for at least one day a week and to avoid any trespassing the landlord had marked the rent books with at least one special day when the wash-house would be the sole property of the flat tenant. The cantankerous old woman downstairs, with her poor, hen-pecked husband, was a bit proprietorial about his wash-house. It contained a chair and a chest of drawers of theirs, for they used the little building as a sort of tool-shed, etc. when the upstairs’ occupants were not using it on their special days. She and her husband would sit out there in the summer. Ade and the other people above didn’t mind just so long as they could use it when they were entitled to. But the woman downstairs was jealous of Ade’s wash and got up to all sorts of nasty, ‘accidental’ tricks to despoil, especially, the lovely, long, lace curtains, Ade’s pride and joy. Ade was very conscientious as to rinsing, always believing that the water should run pure and clean at the final rinse, so she would place her clean, washed curtains on the top of the drain underneath the cold water tap and while she was busy in the wash-house the water would run slowly on to the curtains for the final rinse.

  Sometimes the cantankerous old cat would nip out and empty her teapot down the drain, without asking Ade to remove the little bath – ‘I didn’t want to bother you, dear, when you were busy’ – and Ade would emerge to find tea stains on her curtains. Or the old girl would get her mouse-like husband to do something to the copper chimney so that Ade would have a smoky yard to clear first before she could clear and relight the fire under the stone copper in the wash-house. Now the twins knew of Ade’s annoyance and they knew their mother would go on putting up with this inconvenience for the sake of peace in the house. So they made a plan. They broke open some fireworks and stuffed these, with rags, into the copper chimney when the old woman downstairs was to do her wash. Unfortunately for them, the old woman didn’t start washing at once and, because it was a nice summer’s day, she and her husband decided to have their elevenses in the wash-house. They put a match to the copper fire and sat down with their food and drink to await a nice, fierce fire to get the water really hot. The fire certainly did become fierce. Suddenly, with a tremendous roar, it backfired, and soot and brickdust exploded into the wash-house, smothering the two ground-floor dwellers.

  Ade heard the screams and saw the two black minstrels emerge. Fortunately they were not hurt and she read the riot act to the twins. But it had the desired effect; Ade got no more stains on her lace curtains and the copper fire burned brightly and smokelessly for the rest of her stay in the house.

  At long last life became normal for me again because Chas was home, well once more. Perhaps ‘normal’ was not the right word, but it was a great relief and, indeed, a great joy to have him back, although, as my dear Ade laughingly remarked, ‘You look like the invaleed, Dolly, with Chas so tanned and bright of eye, and rarin’ to go.’

  Ade was delighted at our first social evening after Chas’s return, for, thanks to Susan, it was unexpectedly if accidentally exciting. Mr Cohen, our new mayor, was keen to do something to put the borough on the map, so to speak, and, amongst other activities, decided that the borough needed a Carnival Queen. All the young ladies of the borough would be invited to enter for this title. However, the local maidens seemed loath to enter and the list was much shorter than the eager mayor had anticipated ; but even though there were so few entries, the event would have to take place, although it would hardly deserve the designation of a competition. The mayor decided to search around for some more entries and canvassed the young lady employees of the borough.

  Susan’s colleague and close friend at the Town Hall was a charming girl, our Doreen, tall, with lovely dark hair and eyes and good features. She almost succumbed to the mayor’s entreaties, but held out until Susan could be persuaded to enter also. Susan was horrified about it all, but in the end promised she would accompany her friend Doreen. When the names of the judges became known Susan became very nervous indeed and actually lost her appetite, for one of them was to be Majorie Proops, ‘Proops’ of the heavy horn-rimmed glasses and cigarette holder.

  Doreen chose her dress for the occasion but Susan seemed disinterested until Doreen saw the very frock for Susan – cream brocaded silk, tight bodice, full skirt, off-the-shoulders neckline. The mayor had engaged an expert to make up all the girls on the evening.

  The great day came and by evening Susan was sick with fear. She certainly looked lovely in the dress of stiff Thai silk and she and Doreen left with shiny faces for the Town Hall and the make-up artist. The hairdressers had been busy, but Susan shampooed her own hair. It was naturally wavy, thick, and determined to go its own way, but she found a little man who cut it so beautifully that I thought, hairwise, there was no one to touch her. Chas announced he was not feeling well enough to attend the ceremony and our little group went without him.

  I was surprised to find the Town Hall crammed to capacity with spectators. In the gallery were the-serried ranks of Guides, Scouts, Life Brigade, Sea Scouts, etc. and it was standing-room only, so we crammed ourselves in at the back of the hall. An air of excitement pervaded the hall as the judges filed in, Proops, of course, being easily recognisable. The assembled company cheered the judges as though they were bringing us salvation.

  Then the parade began – such lovely girls. I thought Doreen outstanding – indeed, I chose my one, two, three. In my mind, of course, my sweet Sue was not in my first three, yet I had to admit that I had given birth to a ravishing creature. If it hadn’t been for the dress I would not have recognised her – those sparkling blue eyes, and the peaches-and-cream complexion. Possibly nervous paralysis had given her that mannequin’s slow walk -well, not slow, exactly, but professional. As she passed, the uniformed spectators, especially the Sea Scouts, went mad with roars of approval.

  Silence reigned while the judges conversed with each competitor, and then the mayor came forward to announce the winner. At this point the gallery were yelling, ‘Susan, Susan, Susan.’ I wondered what would happen when the mayor did not announce her name, as I was sure he would not. But he did, and pandemonium broke loose. People were dancing, cheering and singing. It was like Armistice night. Chas was asleep when we reached home and I didn’t wake him to tell him of the result.

  Susan had a busy year visiting hospitals, opening fetes, taking tea on the Sea Scouts’ training ship, and at the end of her reign had lost a stone in weight.

  William was taken to task by his schoolfriends because of his apparent lack of partisanship and pride in his sister’s achievement. Like my father, apt as always, William said, ‘In my opinion Susan was merely the best of a very poor bunch!’

  Chapter 14

  Wish You Were Here

  We decided to celebrate Chas’s recovery with the holiday of a lifetime, a holiday to end all holidays. Chas did the choosing. A top hotel recommended by a first-class organisation; in Devon, the nostalgic scene of his army exploits. We would all love this place, he assured us.

  We had arranged to go with Marjorie and Alfred and to leave London after lunchtime on Saturday, when trading in our busy shops would be easing off, returning the following Friday night, invigorated and rested, to cope with the following Saturday’s rush. Chas had, therefore, written to the top-class hotel advising them that we would not arrive until evening, owing to pressure of business, and asked them to arrange a meal for the we
ary travellers. He hired a magnificent limousine from a car-hire firm, and at two o’clock one hot, sunny Saturday, we prepared to embark.

  Where was William? He had been ready all morning, agitating with ‘What time is it now, Mum?’ Now we all had to yell for him. At last he appeared, wearing flippers, snorkel and goggles, and carrying a six-foot-long spear. He was obviously at the ready to spear a fish for our supper on arrival. ‘Well, you can’t bring that ruddy spear,’ shouted Chas, having discovered that it was razor sharp. ‘It’s a lethal weapon, we’ll be apprehended by the police!’ ‘I won’t come without my spear,’ stated young William. ‘It has taken weeks to prepare and sharpen.’ At last Alf, always understanding of the young, suggested we made a padded hood for the spear. The goggles, snorkel and flippers were put into a carrier bag and, to the cheers and farewells of our customers, we were off. Our beautiful limousine simply glided along and Chas was wearing his modest ‘If you require things to be done properly, leave it to me’ look. Our chauffeur in his uniform was a little on the elderly side, but this would, I knew, assure us of a comfortable and relaxing journey. I had an obstinate headache. We had worked hard for six hours that Saturday morning, and were all looking forward to a pleasant country drive to the paradise Chas had chosen for us. As soon as we reached the open road, however, a Jekyll-like change came over our safe, elderly driver.

  At first I took as pride in his work his boasting that he was his company’s premier driver, and I was only half listening; but then I observed a tenseness in my four companions. I realised we were pasing all cars going our way. Vaguely I had thought, ‘Why so many stationary cars?’ I looked at the speedometer – 75! And then it happened. In front of us bounced a large, black object, I thought it had fallen from the sky so sudden and violent was its coming. It was the spare tyre from one of the cars behind us, and, because we were going downhill, it had hurtled over the roof of our car. Our car swerved violently and to our utter horror our driver began to chase the tyre which was rushing full pelt down the hill. I thought he was trying to catch it but he was actually trying to race it, his noble attention being to warn other drivers en route. He had assumed the mantle of St George. We, his charges, were entirely forgotten, the limousine now his fiery charger.

  At the bottom of the long hill the tyre leapt over a hedge into a field. ‘Stop!’ yelled Chas in a voice of frantic command. We alighted from our carriage and tottered into the gardens of a nearby country tea-room. Our driver followed us. ‘We reached a hundred miles an hour, then,’ he said excitedly. ‘Did you notice?’ Disappointed, no doubt, that we did not pat him on the back or begin to pick some laurel leaves for a garland of honour for him, he went off into the cottage to impress the people there with his Ben Hur exploits. ‘He’s mad,’ said Marjorie. ‘I’m not going to set foot in that car with that driver again,’ I said, my head throbbing. As usual Alf kept calm. ‘I’ll go and talk to the driver,’ he said. ‘We have only a hundred miles to go now.’ A hundred miles! It seemed an interminable distance to me. Alf spoke quietly to the driver, who looked at me and, possibly because I looked a bit green at that moment – I certainly felt that colour – we did the rest of the journey in a relatively calm manner, reaching a mere seventy-five miles an hour again. I kept my mind on the heaven which awaited me. Cool linen sheets and pillowcases, soft country air in a pretty hotel bedroom, for I would go straight to bed. The others, I imagined, were thinking of the delicious meal Chas had ordered for them. He was so well organised he left nothing to chance.

  By a miracle we arrived safely at our hotel. We went into the reception lobby. No one was there. Chas, in charge, rang the bell on the counter. No one appeared. We waited. Chas rang the bell again; still no sign of life. After our third wait Chas decided something more commanding should be done and took the daring course of going through a green baize door marked ‘Private’. As if by magic, a little man emerged from another door and went after Chas, calling out truculently, ‘Can’t you read? It says “Private”!’ Chas ignored this slur on his intelligence, for obviously the man was the boots boy, although a bit on the elderly side for a ‘boy’. His uniform stressed his menial standing, for he was wearing a crumpled, faded, blue cotton outfit, the trousers very tight accentuating his short, narrow legs. He was like a cartoon character, for his head was large and, except for his bad-tempered expression, rather on the noble side, as he possessed white, shining, well-brushed hair and wore a white, curling moustache. Headwise, he could have been a colonel; bodywise, an ‘odd job man’, feetwise, a tired long-distance runner, for he wore dirty, old, white plimsolls.

  It wasn’t difficult to observe that the little man had taken an instant disliking to Chas. I was in the mood to burst into tears at any argument. Everything was going wrong and Chas had been so anxious that we should all have a lovely holiday. We couldn’t possibly have come to the wrong hotel, surely? ‘I am the owner,’ announced the little man suddenly. ‘Oh,’ replied Chas. With a wave of his hand towards we travel-stained characters, he said, ‘I am Charles Scannell, and this is my party.’ William now had his deep-sea fishing outfit on again, his spear, unhooded, upright by his side. He looked like an eccentric centurion. ‘What time do you call this?’ said the owner belligerently. ‘I wrote you we’d be late and that we would like a meal on arrival,’ continued Chas, politely but firmly. ‘A meal!’ expostulated the man. ‘Dinner has been over for ages. In any case, I received no letter from you.’ ‘Well, I have your receipt for the money I sent,’ continued Chas, fishing in his pocket. ‘Oh that,’ said the man, disgustedly. ‘Well, if you can tell us of a restaurant, or another hotel, we’ll get some food elsewhere,’ said Chas. ‘Oh, all right,’ said the owner. ‘Come into the breakfast room when you are ready and I’ll find something for you.’

  We carried our own cases upstairs and Chas persuaded me to have a cup of tea, at least, before I went to bed. I was miserable and longed to be home again. My head was thundering, and I could see only half objects. The breakfast room was pleasant and I arrived to find the rest of our party gazing at their viands. Strange, bony-looking fish, cold and dried, broad beans and round chunks of carrot, all cold. No tea was forthcoming and I went back to our room. Perhaps things would be different in the morning. I doubted it, somehow, for it was still only 8.30. Surely hotels don’t lock the larders at eight o’clock; not top hotels, as this one was supposed to be?

  Headache gone, I went down next morning to an attractive dining-room. Six tables were occupied by pale-looking guests, obviously new arrivals too. Chas went off to find the office. The winceyette sheets on his bed had been thin and much darned. He had put his feet through them and had awoken in the night wearing sheets Gandhi-wise. Mine had split, too, but I would have to complain at some other time, for I had grumbled when Chas woke me up to tell me his complaints and could hardly now flaunt my own.

  ‘Sausage and egg, egg and bacon, bacon and tomatoes,’ asked the waitress of each guest in a parrot-like dirge. This recitation greeted us every morning, and Chas, being very brave, one morning replied, ‘I’ll have a combination of all three.’ The waitress returned to the kitchen. The hatch was opened and a red-faced owner, cum odd-job-man, cum boots, and now chef, searched the dining-room for Oliver Twist. Chas put his newspaper to his face, but the waitress’s description of Chas must have been on the vague side, for, when the combination breakfast arrived (the owner probably felt it was breakfast and lunch), the hatch was not closed but lowered to an inch and through the chink I could see two searching eyes. The sausage, a midget one, had obviously been the runt of the litter, the streaky rasher was halved, the tomato quartered, but the egg, of course, had conquered the owner’s ingenuity, and I imagined this was the cause of his apoplexy.

  The weather was miserable, dull, misty, trying hard to rain, but we had to get our money’s worth and we went off to the beach, complete with native spear. William was soon in the water and I implored him to say near the edge, for I thought the sea looked a bit choppy. ‘Oh, mum, you’ve f
orgotten I have my certificates for swimming,’ he reminded me. Of course he had, but swimming in the gentle waters of the local baths was a different kettle of fish.

  The sea became rough and William was getting too far out from the shore. I stood up and yelled. He couldn’t hear me and suddenly life became very serious. Alf galloped off down the beach shouting that he’d seen a long rope hanging on a beach notice. Marjorie started to undress, Chas began to follow suit, while I just shouted, ‘Come back, William.’ Of course he couldn’t. I too began to tear off my clothes. The fact that Marjorie was the only strong swimmer among us, and she hadn’t swum for years, didn’t sink in. We could make a chain. Alf returned when my son’s head was just a black blob in the distance. ‘It’ll be all right,’ said Alf. ‘A young man’s reached him, look,’ and I saw two blobs getting nearer the beach. I sat down and put my hands over my eyes. ‘For God’s sake, Dorothy, go and put some clothes on,’ said Chas, gazing at me in disgust. I was down to bra and pants, but there was no one on the beach, it seemed, except us. I tried to work out in my mind the reason for Chas’s annoyance at my summer apparel. It couldn’t be that I was so beautiful he didn’t want another male to glance at me. One’s brother-in-law is, after all, like a brother to one. No, it must be that I looked frightful. I decided it would be an excellent opportunity for slimming, this week at this ‘luxury’ hotel. I wouldn’t even have to be strong willed.

  After William’s narrow escape Alfred offered to take us out to sea in a boat with an outboard motor. At the last minute Marjorie and I changed our minds. Chas was sea-sick before they’d gone fifty yards and Alf returned him, green and tottery. Finally, when Alf reached the pier, the motor conked out and he and William had to wait in a choppy sea for some time before attracting attention from a passing craft. Marjorie and I felt sorry for the man who took visitors for trips in his large boat, so that, one pouring wet, windy day, we gave him our custom. Chas said we were mad, and a weather-beaten Devon man and two females with the sea in their blood faced the angry waves. It was a terrifying experience and we gained new respect for the men who go down to the sea in ships.