We could never use the shower with the fishy curtains. It had been installed too near the edge of the bath and water poured all over the floor. The shaving-point was never used either, Chas obstinately resisting this. William was pleased with his beard, which had turned out a reddish-autumnal colour. The back door flew off its hinges so many times (we were on the brow of a hill and got the full force of the country gales) it had to be replaced, but not until I’d given the milkman and the insurance man a couple of nasty knocks when the door flew out of my hands. Ade was in hysterics when the perfect hostess pulled the curtains, for the whole lot fell to the floor with a noise like a set of false teeth shooting from one’s mouth. The ‘craftsmen’ had used up bits of rail on my fittings, so that at each join the curtains dropped through. ‘You know what your Dad would have said about these “craftsmen”?’ asked Chas. We laughed when we remembered my father’s face and expression whenever he saw bad workmanship – ‘They’re nothing but “fartarse mechanics” these days,’ he’d shout.
However, I did use the sink in the potting annexe. It was expensive and it was enormous; I just couldn’t waste it. I did the weekly wash there, winter and summer. My washing-machine was the noisiest monster ever, it appeared to have permanent whooping-cough, but at least it didn’t matter when I forgetfully flooded the stone floor there. But at least I astounded my neighbours and amused the children next door. On a snowy winter’s day I would emerge from the house to walk to the potting-shed and my laundry work, dressed as for a seal hunt – fur hat, thick gloves, two winter coats, thick football socks of William’s and fleecy-lined wellies. As the woman next door said, ‘My kids love you.’
‘What does Benny think about you coming here, Ade?’ ‘Oh, he’s all for it, but there won’t be another house for six months. In the meantime, we’ve got the car, we can see how you’re getting on.’
Whoopee!
The day for our move arrived at last. It was simply teeming with rain. The three removal men were enormous in stature and one wore very pointed winkle-picker shoes. He seemed to shuffle instead of lifting his feet and I could have cried as I watched the furniture delivered. The drive was covered with sand and cement from the builder’s recent exploits and I watched my new floor anxiously as my fat, winkle-picker-shod remover shuffled back and forth, unable to lift his feet even when not carrying ‘heavy’ furniture (my new lot was made from matchsticks!) My new floor could not help but be scratched after having a soft-shoe-shuffle ballet performed on it by three large men. I thought a good advertising slogan for a removal firm might be, ‘we pick ’em up’. One of my ‘helpers’ gazed at the white walls and white paint everywhere and said, ‘Of course, you’ve got no kids.’ He seemed relieved when he entered the kitchen and I knew he approved of the yellow and grey scheme there. I was disappointed here, for my sunshine yellow and pearl grey had turned out a bit too equatorial; the sunshine yellow was blazing orange and the pearl grey more like the colour of an elephant. ‘Never mind,’ said Chas, ‘the kitchen is so tiny, it will take no time to repaint it.’ He knew I was a bit on edge so he avoided his usual ‘Dorothy just slaps it on’ attitude, or his ‘Get a man in.’
At last, after my fat winkle-picker had kicked the last bit of white paint with his points and drank his final cup of tea, the house was ours. This seemed to bring no joy to Chas, who looked tired out. William had ignored the whole proceedings and was still sitting on a case reading a heavy tome. The removal men had looked at him in a puzzled way during the whole proceedings and I imagined they were now saying, ‘Who was that bloke with that big book?’
I began a mad rush to get straight. ‘But what about our lunch, then?’ pleaded Chas. I threw down some clothes. ‘Oh, all right then, I’ll stop and make some sandwiches.’ ‘Sandwiches!’ screamed Chas. ‘I must have a proper meal or I can’t go on.’ He collapsed on a packing-case, weak through hunger, nay, starvation, and I went into the kitchen and began to bang my utensils about as though I intended to cook a real meal. ‘Well, if you like,’ said a contrite Chas, ‘I will cook a meal if you tell me what you have.’ He decided on pork chops, brussels sprouts, creamed potatoes, with fruit and cream to follow. ‘I’d like to get straight today,’ I remarked ominously to William, still deep in his book. ‘Mother,’ said William, sadly, ‘all my life you have said, “When I get straight”. You will never get straight for you are not a straight person – domestically,’ he added hastily, catching a glimpse of my extremely sour expression.
I was making the beds when I smelt burning fat. Dashing downstairs I found Chas had now joined William in the ‘reading’ room, his eyes in a downward position, engrossed in the football page of the daily newspaper. In the kitchen the pork chops were alight (Chas insists on grilling) and black smoke was creeping up the wall. At my violent remarks Chas dashed out. ‘I’ve saved them,’ he shouted at my retreating back. I had to retreat or I should have gone berserk. But by evening, all our troubles behind us, or so I thought, my home looked quite gracious. There was even a finishing touch in the flower-filled vases. Chas decided to tidy the garage and, as he opened the garage door, it fell off its hinges. Coming back to tell me of this happening he left open the kitchen door and it was then that a heavy gust of wind tore that off its hinges, too, for the first time. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Chas, ‘the workmen are working overtime next door, they’ll put the doors back on again.’ On another bill for late extras we received, the last two items were ‘for fixing garage and kitchen doors’!
Harry and Susan arrived to see how we were getting on. ‘The entrance to your drive is too narrow for me to get my car in,’ said Harry. ‘Too narrow!’ said the foreman. ‘Nonsense, I have a big car.’ (As though anyone connected with me would naturally possess an Austin Seven and also be an amateurish driver.) With the help of a mate to guide him he inched his car into the driveway towards the garage. Then he tried to get out of the driveway again. The mirrors on the bonnet caught on the gate-posts and twisted alarmingly. He gave me a look of hate as though I had damaged his lovely car. Then he said, ‘It’ll be all right for any visitors you have, for mine is an exceptionally big car.’ ‘Well, even with a tiny car I would have to accompany any visitor at night time with a bright lantern. And you’d never get a hearse up to the door,’ I said. I must have aged with all the worry.
With my home at last looking, for a short time only, I knew, like the pictures in the magazine, I attacked the garden. It seems to me that a house-builder’s last act before announcing a house is ready for occupation is to make sure that a client is endowed with buried treasure in his new garden. Virgin soil in Essex is not the easiest of things to work on anyway, but I wish a builder would at least leave at each new house a map of the buried treasure, which comprises bits of old iron, bags of cement, now concrete, tree stumps, and hundreds of bricks. We have, over the years, discovered in new gardens the remains and foundations of a goat-house, a reinforced concrete boiler house, stone steps, and a wide, solid concrete path of a country mansion. To heighten the joy of digging, a builder usually removes the top soil and generously replaces this with a treble layer of clay, well rammed down. Months after I have laid lawns with heavy manual labour, Chas has gazed at the grassy sward and remarked, ‘There are brown patches in the lawn, it could not have been dug thoroughly.’ He daren’t say, ‘You didn’t dig it thoroughly’; even he is not that brave!
Amy came to visit us and for the first time she became enraptured with my choice of venue. ‘It’s lovely, Dolly,’ she cried. ‘I must have a house here.’ Carried away by her enthusiasm and the thought that she would be living in my road, I took her to my builder. Strange how at that time builders never really seemed to want to part with their houses. Yes, he had one nearing completion but by the time it was finished it would be at least £1000 dearer than Mrs S’s. ‘Oh,’ said Amy, with a look of contempt for the builder. ‘I wouldn’t pay that price for one of these houses.’ We went further afield and began house-searching for Amy. At last we discovered, in the nex
t road to Susan at Theydon Bois, high on the brow of a hill, overlooking the Retreat, the scene of our Sunday School outings, a bungalow for sale. Well, it had been advertised for sale but the maiden lady who owned it seemed to think that she was bestowing a gift upon any prospective purchaser. She was very choosy as to whom she would allow to take possession of her bungalow. She had lived there since she was a girl. It was the love of her life. (I wondered why she was selling.)
The bungalow was small, with just one bedroom, but it had plenty of ground around it, for it was detached. Obviously much work would have to be done on it, new rooms would have to be built, but this thought excited Amy, for, unlike me, she knew exactly what sort of home she wanted. The thought of transforming the bungalow was exciting, for it was in such a beautiful spot. To gaze out of the dining-room windows at the surrounding countryside was, I was sure, the nearest thing to living in an Austrian Schloss. Finally we sold ourselves to the old maiden lady and I left an excited Amy, her head filled with drawings and architect’s plans. But here Amy made a mistake. She either misjudged the maiden lady, or, being such an honest person, could not contain herself when she thought of the beauty of the new home she was planning for herself. She told the old lady of her plans for the bungalow, how lovely it would be. I knew, to the old lady, it couldn’t have been lovelier then. I would have raved over it had I been buying it, and described it as ‘having character’, being a ‘happy home’, making her feel I was as grateful to her as though she had been giving me her bungalow.
One evening a tearful Amy phoned me. The old lady had decided not to sell her bungalow to Amy. ‘Leave it to me, Amy,’ I said from my position as successful house purchaser, ‘I’ll see the old lady this evening.’ Chas arrived home from Waterloo (where he battled daily to a busy office). ‘Don’t get undressed, dear. I know you will come with me to Theydon Bois. It’s urgent, I will explain on the way.’ I couldn’t go alone because the roads there were unlit. Chas fell up the steps to the bungalow in the dark and I could see he was beginning to get irritable, for it wasn’t until I had arrived at Theydon Bois and rang the bell at the door of the bungalow that I allowed him to know that we were ‘not expected’. He turned to leave, the bungalow was in pitch darkness, but I dragged him back as a light went on in the hall. The door opened a few inches. No, the house owner would not see me. The matter was settled, she would tell the agent in the morning to remove the bungalow from his books. I could feel Chas’s anger rise as I said, ‘Oh, what a heavenly smell, what a marvellous shrub you must have near here.’ I knew she had a special shrub from abroad of which she was very proud, for she had mentioned she must take it with her when she left. She opened the door wide. ‘If you will come in for a moment, I will show you a photograph of it.’ We went into a cluttered-up lounge. She switched on the electric fire, the lead of which was mended in several places. With a flash the fire went off and the lights fused. By the light of candles Chas mended the fuses but the lights came on for a few minutes only. They had now fused at the mains. ‘Don’t worry,’ said the old dear. ‘I have plenty of candles.’ At last I was able to return to the subject of the bungalow. ‘No,’ stated the old lady, ‘your sister’s not having it, I don’t like what she said’ (Amy’s alteration plans). Fortunately she added, ‘Now if it was you, yes, I’d like you to have it.’ I was able to follow up on this line by telling her that Amy and I were so close, we almost lived together! I also said that by the time Amy had bought the bungalow she would have realised that, with her own furniture in, there would be nothing that needed altering. In any case James, her husband, would insist on leaving it as it was. The maiden lady then ‘fell’; she knew when she had spoken to Jimmy what a charming man he was! At last, worn out with my salesmanship, the old lady relented. The bungalow was Amy’s.
Fortunately the old lady moved to the seaside, for she would have suffered apoplexy had she seen what happened to her ‘lovely’ bungalow. New rooms, altered rooms – it really was impossible to equate the new residence with the old. Then, in the now thirty-foot lounge, Amy achieved her great desire. Wrought-iron. This beautiful piece of craftsmanship, made to Amy’s design, went the whole width of the room, having a door, or, rather, a gate, in the middle, and at the side exotic plants climbed up the wrought-iron. The room was all white, even to the curtains. Amy had embroidered these in petit point with a bright Spanish design. The Spanish-type chandeliers and fireplace, a specially made refectory table, etc. – it really was superb. When Chas and I went to dinner there, just before Chas arrived – he was coming straight from the office – Jim fetched a duster and attacked the wrought-iron with it. This infuriated Amy who had dusted it thoroughly half an hour before. ‘Well,’ said Jim, laughing, ‘you know how particular Charlie is.’ Chas arrived, gazed round the room in admiration, and Amy looked pleased – that is, until Chas said, ‘The trouble with wrought-iron, or, rather, such an expanse of it, is that you will need to be extra sure when dusting you don’t miss a flower or a leaf,’ and, to my horror, he ran a finger round a delicate flower and held up a finger covered in dust. An annoyed Amy went off into the kitchen, an ashamed Dolly followed. Both Chas and Jim were laughing. ‘I think Charlie is very rude,’ said Amy. We were silent on the way home until Chas got his come-uppance. While we were passing the pond he slipped into a ditch and fell up to his knees in smelly mud. His remarks as to the residents of Theydon Bois, who fought to keep their village unlighted, were a little on the choice side.
Chapter 21
A Rare Gift
Ade and I saw each other often after the move and I still went back to shop with her in North London from time to time. Ridley Road market was our usual venue, we could find what we wanted there, just as fashionable and more reasonable than in the West End. Having Ade with me I was not so likely to be dragged into a dress shop at the first invitation of the assistant, for in those days the owner or one of his assistants walked the street outside the shop welcoming in the unwary. I would try on a coat or garment (after having inspected the windows in the whole area and having, with Ade’s expert guidance, chosen the right shop) and, if it was something I really wanted, Ade would inspect it thoroughly again, as though it was nothing much, and then ask the price. When given this information Ade would stagger back as though she’d been informed of a disaster and couldn’t believe it, and then began a period of fierce bargaining. Ade knew all this embarrassed me but eventually, if the price was right, I left the shop with a good buy. Sometimes the manager would say, ‘Take it, I’m losing money on it, I’ll never be able to stay in business at this rate. Do me a favour, dear, don’t come in my shop again.’ But it was Ade they admired. I was just ‘one of those who come over London Bridge every minute’. Ade often had invitations to be an assistant in one of the smart fashion shops, but I knew her well enough to know she couldn’t be hard or businesslike the other way round.
We had great fun with the stallholders, too. If she thought someone was trying to put one over on her she’d say, ‘I’ve not left me white stick at the Home, you know,’ or ‘So’se your Aunt Fanny.’ She was not mean in any way but she worked too hard to throw money away. Susan and Harry admired her enormously and she felt so at home with them. She made Susan laugh, which was something I was never able to do – well, sometimes I achieved a little giggle from her. And baby Anne adored Ade, which surprised me, for I always thought one had to speak very quietly to babies. For a large woman, however, Ade was very gentle in her handling of Anne, although she couldn’t alter her normal tone of voice, but Anne seemed to like this. Ade was thrilled about this but said, ‘I expect she thinks I’m the sister of that giant teddy-bear she likes so much.’
On Sunday afternoons Ade’s boys and Benny would do the washing up, and, when we were at the shop, William and Chas would do the same for me – well, almost the same. They would never put anything away again, and as I went down the stairs I could hear Chas shouting to William (who had leaped away somewhere in the middle of wiping up), ‘What’s the good of a j
ob half done?’ and then William’s ‘Well, dad, it only leaves half for someone else to do,’ as he returned, laughing, to finish the job. Chas was so noisy in his ministrations that it was heaven when Ade and I got established on our bench in the park, baby Anne now asleep.
In the park on those Sunday afternoons of yesteryear I became Ade’s confidante. Although her mother had had other children, Ade had been the only one to survive and consequently she had been the apple of her parents’ eyes. Her father, a driver of a brewer’s dray, was in regular work; Ade said she inherited her voice and physique from him. Her mother, a thin, delicate, little woman tired out through constant pregnancies and a hard childhood, gave up the struggle when Ade was fourteen, after her father’s sudden death. Ade said he suffered a heart attack whilst driving the dray.
The local vicar obtained a post for Ade in an institution-cum-hospital. Her mother had been a seamstress and Ade was trained by the hospital authorities in the same trade. She said stitching the unbleached sheets and hospital mattress-covers was as bad as she imagined it would be to stitch mail-bags in a prison. However, she had a little room of her own, one day off a week, and a certain amount of pocket money; the small amount over was banked for her by the hospital authorities. ‘At least, Dolly, I was safe from the dangers of the outside world, although lonely, for the other seamstresses were older women, some of whom had been in an institution all their lives.’
It was in the hospital grounds she first met Benny, her husband. A slim, fair, delicate-looking young man, he’d been discovered, broke and ill, in a Hampstead flat. Possibly because they were both alone in the world they became friends, although Ade said in every way they were entirely opposite personalities. Benny had come from an upper-middle-class family, the only son of divorced parents. His mother, a sophisticated lady, led the life of a socialite, his father was abroad somewhere. Neither of them wanted him and he spent his early life with a procession of nannies until he languished in a minor public school, which was a time of terror for him.
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