Dolly's Mixture

by Dorothy Scannell

  I woke on Christmas Day with a splitting headache. The sherry of course. The stuffing looked horrible, a greyish-brown mass, but ‘all good stuff’ I assured myself, and bunged it into the bird. The turkey was in the oven before Chas rose. He busied himself about the shop. Susan made the table look lovely. Chas went over to Marjorie’s for a drink. Amy and Jimmy were already there. ‘Dolly won’t come, she wants to make sure everything is perfect for our lunch.’ I really don’t know how I basted the bird, it was so heavy. In the end I smothered the floor with thick newspapers, and myself in a shop overall, for it was really a question of dropping it as gently as I could to the floor. I really needed a strong man to help me back with it but, although I made a bit of a mess, I did manage to get it back into the oven. It was very brown and crisp-looking; I was afraid it would be overdone and I lowered the gas to wait for my guests.

  They arrived happy and laughing, all wearing funny hats. Not the usual hats one gets from crackers, but real toy hats Alf had bought for our Christmas ‘spirit’. Chas was wearing a tiny policeman’s hat, a real miniature model. There was a ringing at the shop door. Oh dear, surely someone was not visiting at lunch time? We’d have to offer them a drink, the turkey would be done to a cinder. Chas came back after ten minutes, alone. It was Nellie No Roof. She’d forgotten her husband’s ham, could she have two ounces! Chas, the boy scout, had gone to the trouble of doing this for her, and was laughing, for Nellie had said it would be a bit of extra business for us at Christmas.

  The turkey was on the table, vegetables hot in their dishes, gravy steaming, the family all loving and happy. Oh, Christmas was lovely, I was so glad I had taken the trouble I had. Marjorie placed on my head a tiny gold crown. We were all laughing at nothing. Alf was always the carver. A calm, capable chappie, always methodical; the long shop knife perfect for a perfect turkey. We cheered as he made his first incision. From this golden-brown bird shot a stream of red liquid, it bubbled up from its breast like the hot water from those New Zealand geysers. Except this wasn’t hot water or steam. I went quickly to the kitchen. Perhaps I’d left the oven alight. ‘Dorotheeee,’ screamed Chas. ‘What’s all there ’ere, then?’ Silence. ‘The bloody thing’s not cooked, it’s raw,’ he yelled. I came back from the kitchen. ‘There must be something wrong with my oven,’ I began. As Chas began a further round of recriminations, Alf, still calm, said, ‘Now, now, don’t let’s spoil our Christmas over a little thing like this.’ I knew Chas would choke at the ‘little’ adjective. ‘I’m sure I can carve enough that is done,’ and he began to carve on the outer edges of the bird. ‘The legs are perfect,’ he soothed. ‘I like the legs best of all,’ said sweet Jimmy. I knew Chas had made up his mind not to have brown meat. ‘Next year, we’ll have something different,’ promised, or threatened, Chas. ‘Well, there’s still the stuffing, it’s chestnut,’ I announced. ‘Oh, that sounds marvellous,’ said Alf, and exposed the bird at its stuffing area. ‘Ugh, I don’t fancy chestnut stuffing after all,’ said William. ‘I didn’t know it would be that reddish colour.’ ‘These roast potatoes are lovely, Dolly,’ said Marjorie. ‘No one can roast potatoes like your mum,’ she said to Susan.

  The men washed up. ‘I’ve got so many lovely games,’ said Amy, ‘we’ll begin when the men have finished and we’ve had coffee.’ ‘And liqueurs,’ I surprised them. I went upstairs to change into my Christmas suit. I thought the television a bit noisy, but there, no one could hear it but us, people both sides were away. Amy came to the bedroom. ‘Can you speak to William? We are ready for games and he has got Moby Dick on the telly.’ ‘Oh, Amy, I did promise he could see that.’ She looked annoyed and, gazing at my back, she said, ‘What’s that, Dolly?’ ‘It’s the same sort of lump as I have in my leg,’ I said. She gave me a strange look and said, ‘Dolly, I am very wary of lumps, I don’t like them at all.’ She went downstairs. I sat on the bed, now thoroughly depressed. Because Amy had worked not only in a chemist’s shop but also at a hospital, I had endowed her with medical knowledge. This was it, then; I had it. I went downstairs on this happy Christmas afternoon in a state of utter gloom.

  We sat silently through Moby Dick. Amy was cross. The men were asleep. ‘I don’t think they are ready for games in any case,’ I said, excusing myself for not turning off Moby Dick. But at last he came to an end and Chas suggested we have tea and then games. ‘Perhaps that would be better,’ said Amy. ‘We can stay up all night if we wish.’ Chas looked a bit horror-stricken at this remark and I thought, Oh, dear, I hope he’s not going to be the next fly in the ointment. I went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. There was a blood-curdling scream from Susan. Whatever could have happened to her? I flew into the lounge.

  Of course, engrossed with the troubles of the day, not the least my lumps, I had forgotten my cake manoeuvre. My half-eaten slice had fallen out as she lifted the cake out of its tin. She said, ‘Mum, how could you!’ She was in tears. The company, now all wide awake, gazed at me as though I had committed the crime of all crimes. Charlie said sadly, ‘Whatever compelled you to do such a thing to Susan?’ He was still wearing his policeman’s hat and, feeling thoroughly miserable and ashamed, not knowing why I had done such a dreadful deed, I giggled. ‘Oh mum,’ moaned Susan, ‘you spoil everything.’ Marjorie, always for Susan, put her arms round her. ‘I’m sorry, Sue,’ I said. This brought Susan back to normal. ‘You’re not a bit sorry, mum, else why are you smiling.’ ‘It was a lovely cake, Sue.’ ‘Ooo, mum,’ said Susan, ‘this is one thing you have done which I shall never, ever forget.’

  We played games.

  Chapter 19

  New Arrival

  At this time Marjorie and Alfred decided they should opt out of their busy shop life and remove to the suburbs. On house-hunting expeditions three explorers are always better than two, and I accompanied them on early-closing day, but I threw myself with such eagerness into their search that at one time Marjorie remarked, with hurt dignity, when Alf and I were discussing the pros and cons of a chosen bungalow, ‘One would think it was you and Alf who were moving here, I just don’t seem to be included in the discussions and decisions.’ But I have always had two weaknesses – looking at new houses and buying up remnants of material. No needlewoman I, but materials fascinate me and I was always convinced that one day, when I retired, I would make all sorts of beautiful garments from the pieces I acquired like a magpie. Of course I never did and the materials either turned into dusters or cushion covers with the stitching coming undone, or cluttered up the wardrobe space.

  In the end Marjorie and Alf chose their ideal bungalow but at the last moment the purchase fell through, and the delightful, to me, search started all over again. I felt not a bit envious that the search was not for my dream house. I knew I was trapped in our shop for some years to come and, in any case, although it was a pretty district with good housing, I had not the slightest desire to live in or around Potters Bar. However, one day we went to the Ideal Home Exhibition in London, and my fate was sealed. Alfred decided on a new bungalow which was to be built at Epping. Epping, my childhood dream world, where we had picnicked on our Sunday School treats. As we drove past the forest to inspect the site of the new estate, I could hear from my past the cries and singing of excited children and see again the dear old nun, Sister Kathleen, with her immense, black, flapping umbrella, a browny-rust-black bat of a thing. By the time we children reached Theydon Bois we were like mad things, we just had to shout at the top of our lungs. I never believed I was really there, after weeks of waiting, and I used to squeeze my hands with excitement until the knuckles showed white. I cannot, sadly, remember really enjoying the day itself. I suppose I must have done. I remember the days before, the journey there and the journey home to Mother, but the in-between was rather a time of fear. Were there not snakes in the forest; did not Hansel and Gretel get lost and captured by a witch? Mother had told us not to eat any berries we saw growing, we would be poisoned, and, trusting in my brothers’ great experience of the countryside – th
ey were, after all, older than I was, they had been on at least three more annual outings – I believed them when they said ‘Nettles don’t sting today, Dolly’. I remember the sting and also their spit on the dock leaves they found for me. ‘Nettles don’t sting today, Dolly, they only sting you!’ For the boys there was a safe way of handling nettles. ‘Bring your hand up from underneath, Dolly,’ said Dave. This didn’t work for me, either, but they were sure their spit and the magic dock leaf would be an instant cure.

  I think I spent the whole day almost underneath Sister Kathleen’s voluminous skirts, while envying the rest of the party, all brave adventurers or daring idiots. The fact that no child was ever lost in the forest, or bitten by a snake, did not reassure me in the following years.

  Now I, too, wanted to live in Epping. But I knew it was an impossibility. Chas and I were only just getting on our feet again after all our troubles. I dismissed the difficulties. Chas would get a job somewhere, William would love the area, he too would get a job. I would be a housewife in a dream house. Suddenly in my mind it was Sunday morning in Epping. Chas was gardening and I was cooking the lunch. I could smell gooseberry tart and custard. I wrote to the builders for particulars of the new houses and bungalows on the site of a beautiful country mansion that, sadly, was being demolished.

  Chas was less than optimistic when I conveyed ‘our’ plans to him. ‘Be realistic,’ he said. ‘How can we possibly travel from Epping to North London every day? I am too old to learn to drive.’ ‘I’m not moving,’ was all William said. The brochures for the estate arrived. All the bungalows were sold, as, indeed, were all the Georgian-type houses (in any case, they were beyond our means). So back to square one. If there were no bungalows or houses, my dreams couldn’t be realised. Then one day I heard from the builders that they had received a cancellation for a Georgian house. I went with Marjorie and Alfred to see it. It was white. It had bay windows. It was detached. It was mine. I nearly gave Chas a heart attack when I mentioned the price. £6000! I waved that little problem aside. The bank would lend us the balance of the money we didn’t have. It must be ours. I was terrified at the enormity of the difficulties facing us, but pressed on regardless. Chas mentioned my plans to our accountant, who was more than horrified. Had I taken leave of my senses? How could we journey from the shop each day, three bus or coach changes, an hour’s wait between some of them? That was no way to run a successful business; we should really give up the idea and get ourselves on our feet again first. Deaf to this sensible advice, I despatched Chas to the bank manager for a loan. He went, a tragic figure; he returned, beaming all over his face. The loan had been refused. I wished I had gone myself and I wondered if the bank manager was a friend of our accountant. It was obvious Chas had decided the bank manager was a friend indeed to him.

  ‘There are some smaller houses being built further on out of the town,’ Marjorie ventured. No, I would cut off my nose to spite my face. I certainly would not settle for half a loaf. In a state of sulks I continued on my martyr’d way, hating Chas and William who both wanted to stay put. Then Susan became pregnant. Oh, who wants a house? I couldn’t move now, what on earth made me feel I had to? I would be a granny, joy of joys.

  A month before the happy day we’d had a very busy Friday, busier than usual, and I was still in my white overall when the phone rang. ‘Would you mind popping along for a moment? Susan is not feeling well.’ Since Susan and her husband are the sort of people who make light of physical pain and discomfort I knew that even to send me a casual phone message augured something more than the mere words suggested. Marjorie had presented me with a large gold chain to prevent my specs from continually falling off and, in my shop overall and ‘doctor’s stethoscope’ glasses, I dashed out. It didn’t need a medical man to see that something dreadful was happening and we drove Susan straight to the hospital. Medical men are so unpanicking by nature that, although Susan was admitted in minutes (I thought the doctor looked strangely at me in my white overall and official-looking spectacles), nothing serious was conveyed to us, and we left in a state of calm. She was, as my father would have said, in the best place.

  I was sure we would be visiting the next day to welcome our grandchild. I was so sure that I did not go to bed that Friday but stayed up the whole night through. I did the weekly wash and ironed it while it was wet. ‘Good God,’ said Chas when he arrived downstairs to a steamy kitchen the next morning, ‘I swear you are mad.’ I suppose I wanted to be awake when the phone rang, I wanted to hear the news, I was so worried. However, some days went by and, in the end, the delightful news came in the shape of a customer who worked at the hospital. She same tearing into the shop yelling, ‘Your little granddaughter’s been born in the corridor. I saw her sitting between your gel’s legs and your gel was smiling all over her face! I’ve never seen anyone so pleased with their new baby.’ (What a winged messenger after the nights I had spent almost sitting on top of the phone.) We were told later that the birth was a miracle, worked by the untiring care of the doctors and nurses, for the placenta had been delivered before the baby. Day and night, for the whole time Susan had been in the nursing home, the baby’s heart-beats had had to be checked every half-hour.

  I could hardly wait for evening to come and Harry called for me. ‘Oh, my dear,’ I said, ‘you go on ahead, it is only right you should see Susan and your baby first.’ I was trying to observe the proprieties. Harry laughed, for he knew I could hardly contain myself until I saw the baby and Susan. He said he wouldn’t dream of going without me, in any case he was sure Susan wanted to see her mother more than anyone, which I thought was lovely of him. Chas insisted then that, in this case, he would come as well (he too was waiting, diplomatically, in the wings). Harry had never seen a baby a few hours old. I had never seen a premature baby. My family had regaled Harry with the tales of Susan’s beauty at birth. We therefore had in our minds pictures of a golden-haired baby a few months old, with a peaches-and-cream complexion. We certainly saw a radiant mother. ‘Oh, mum,’ said Susan, ‘she’s so beautiful.’ With joy in our hearts we went to view this lovely infant. A smiling Sister said to Harry, ‘Oh, you’ve come to see your beautiful daughter.’ To us she said, ‘She’s gorgeous,’ and, after this great build-up, Daddy, Granddad and Granny waited outside the babies’ nursery for Sister to hold aloft this wondrous babe, flesh of our flesh.

  Through the thick glass of the cubicle we gazed at the new arrival. Being a premature baby she was still in her pre-natal sleep, and Sister held up a tiny mite with a bit of dark, straight hair. I thought the shrunken, cardboard, yellow woollen vest hardly adorned the lily, and three silent blood relatives stood, wanting to be able to say, ‘Oh, isn’t she beautiful.’ Surprised, and somewhat shocked at our silent stares, Sister said to baby, ‘Let your Daddy see your lovely blue eyes,’ and she pulled down the cheek of baby’s face so that she would open her eyes for us. A most irritated expression crossed baby’s face and she looked really bad tempered. ‘Thank you, Sister,’ said Harry politely but, as we turned away, Chas said, ‘Just look at her little hands.’ We turned; something beautiful we had missed? ‘They are just like bird’s claws,’ stated a diplomatic and wondering Chas. ‘Thank you, Charlie,’ said Harry, ‘you say the nicest things.’ Chas and I waited until Harry had said goodbye to Susan and went in to see her again. Still radiant! I said to her, ‘Do you think Harry is disappointed, Sue?’ ‘I don’t really know, mum,’ said Susan, obviously not caring or even interested in any other view. ‘I couldn’t be happier.’ Then I realised she had the flood of mother-love I had missed with my own children. I realised, too, that this was Susan’s life-wish fulfilled, and I was glad I had lost the battle to send her to university.

  I think new babies should be kept out of sight for a few weeks if they possess grandparents with a critical eye. One nephew of mine amused Harry by saying, about his baby daughter, born a few weeks later, ‘I call her the Toadess!’ She is now a raving beauty.

  I loved being a granny and spen
t all the time I could steal with my now lovely granddaughter, Anne. When I baby-sat for the first time she was six weeks old. I sat in silence, with the television turned off, in case she cried and I didn’t hear. I spent the evening walking up and down stairs to see that she was still breathing. Then I smelt it. Gas! Imagination; I was just nervous being alone in charge of such a treasure. But once I had imagined it, it got worse. I telephoned Chas. ‘Oh God,’ he said, ‘don’t let’s start that all over again.’ I waited. Gas! How could it possibly be, there wasn’t a gas pipe in the house. It was all electric. Finally I telephoned the undertakers next door. Sorry, perhaps I should have said, I telephoned the people next door, who were undertakers, and who used gas. ‘No, everything is all right here, must be your imagination, Susan uses electricity.’ In the end I decided to ask the advice of the Gas Board. Was it possible to smell gas in a house without gas pipes? Desperate, I dressed baby, put her in her pram and packed a case of clothes for her. We were waiting at the front door when the gas man arrived. ‘Get your baby away from here, at once, missus,’ said the man at his first sniff. For six weeks baby and family stayed with us, refugees. There was an escape, a mysterious one, for it wasn’t anywhere near the premises. At last, after weeks of noise from pneumatic drills, the leak was found, across the road and round the corner. The gas had travelled along the telephone wires to its outlet in Susan’s house.

  Nothing stays as it is, the tenor of one’s ways becomes uneven without our help or interference. A busy main road was not the ideal place for a child to live and Theydon Bois was the spot chosen for Anne’s infancy. Now I couldn’t turn up my nose at the smaller house Marjorie had mentioned. After all, was it not within easy travelling distance of Theydon Bois? I went to see it and it had gained a charm it would not have possessed for me previously. Semi-detached, three bedrooms, downstairs cloakroom – yes, we would take it. It was £1500 dearer than it had been when Marjorie first mentioned it to me! I was aghast. If only I’d been more insistent on the Georgian house, something could have been worked out, for this small, semidetached was only £500 cheaper than my dream-palace. ‘Well, Dee,’ said Marjorie, on her dignity, ‘I did try to tell you but you just dismissed me without listening.’ ‘I’m sorry, Marge,’ I said, wondering why I was apologising.