by Sylvia Waugh
“You’d better ask Appleby,” he said sourly. “I don’t know what to believe.”
Wimpey was sitting on the hearth rug with her feet tucked under her. She looked up at her older brother and struggled to think. If Soobie did not know the answer, it must be a hard problem.
“If you wrote a letter to Albert Pond,” she said at last, “and nobody else knew and I sneaked out and put it in the post-box, and he wrote back, then we would know he was real. Well, we would, wouldn’t we?”
Soobie looked at his little sister. There she was, forever ten years old, her golden hair in bunches, her pale blue eyes eternally innocent, and she had come up with the perfect answer. Only she might tell Poopie, and Poopie might tell Father and, oh what a household it was for being unable to keep a secret! A secret is only a secret if it is shared with no one.
“I’ll think about it,” said Soobie, lolling back in his chair. “It’s a lovely day. Why don’t you go out and play in the garden?”
Wimpey looked crestfallen. It had seemed such a good idea, but if Soobie wasn’t keen, it mustn’t be.
As soon as he was alone, Soobie sprang into action. Tulip was upstairs, tidying the big bedroom and being solicitous about ‘the gout’. The plump blue Mennym went with unwonted speed into the breakfast-room and helped himself to a sheet of paper, an envelope and a stamp. There was a moment of panic when the brass bell fell to the floor, knocked over by a clumsy elbow. Soobie silently put it back on the desk. Then he went to his own room and wrote the letter with his own blue pen.
5th September
Dear Albert Pond,
You must write to me swiftly and personally if we are to believe that you exist. I have deliberately put no address at the top of this letter. If you are real, you will know where I live. I cannot risk any information falling into the hands of some mischievous stranger. One mischievous sister is more than enough for any R.D. And if you are real, you will know what those initials stand for.
Soobie M.
Just after midnight, when everyone in the house was sleeping, a hooded figure muffled in a winter coat stole out of the front door of 5 Brocklehurst Grove. A wind had sprung up that was strong enough to make the wintry attire unobtrusive should any passer-by notice him. But there was not a soul in sight.
It was Soobie. He had the letter in his pocket. He was born knowing where the letterboxes were, though he had never posted a letter before. He went left out of the Grove towards the three churches and the park. On the corner of a side street, just behind the first church, there was a remarkable letterbox, one of the few left in the country bearing the monogram of Queen Victoria. Soobie completed his task and returned home.
“Where on earth have you been at this time of night?” demanded Granny Tulip in a low, urgent voice as he passed the open door of the breakfast-room. He might have known! Granny was awake at all hours, knitting and watchful, more watchful than ever since the arrival of Albert’s letter.
“I have been to post a letter,” said Soobie tersely.
“At this time of night?” Tulip looked at him suspiciously.
“A blue Mennym could hardly go posting letters in the middle of the day,” retorted Soobie.
“And where might you be sending letters to? Or is that too much to ask?” His grandmother’s tone was sharp.
“Yes, it is,” said Soobie. “I am tired. I am going to bed. And I am not going to answer any more questions.”
5
Another Conference
THERE WAS A conference. There had to be a conference. In Granpa’s room. Where else? It was held on a Tuesday evening so that Joshua could be present.
They all sat in their usual places. Only Googles was missing. She was safely tucked up in the day nursery. Miss Quigley had slid into the meeting last, after settling her charge down. She closed the door quite elegantly and sat on a stiff-backed chair. She really was different these days. There was no twittering apology for being late. A look in her eyes warned Sir Magnus to make no remark on her lateness and he didn’t.
“Now that we are all here,” he said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice, “it is time we sorted out what to do about Albert Pond’s letter, whoever this Albert Pond may be. We cannot go on ignoring it indefinitely.”
“We might as well,” said Appleby. “It’s obviously somebody’s idea of a joke, and a pretty sick one at that.”
She glared at Miss Quigley. In the last fortnight she had watched that lady very closely. It was certainly not the same Hortensia Quigley as the one who had once lived in the cupboard. It was not just the way she had become an expert on childcare, nor even the fact that she painted so beautifully. She had just about stopped fluttering. She didn’t apologise any more. She was cool, really cool. That was the word for it. Cool enough to take her revenge by inventing an Albert Pond more deadly than the last. At least the Australian had never threatened their home with demolition!
Miss Quigley glared back. She could feel the warmth of embarrassment in her cheeks. She could feel the flutter of her former self trying to get out, but she kept it firmly under control.
“We all know,” she said acidly, “which member of this household is most inclined to play practical jokes.”
What was good to give was certainly bad to take! Appleby stood up sharply, nearly tipping over her stool. “How dare you!” she said. “How dare you!”
“Keep calm,” said Vinetta. “There is no point in anyone being suspicious of anyone else. I think this letter is perfectly genuine.”
“I wrote it,” said Poopie, with a wicked grin. “I wrote it all by myself. Hector showed me how to do it.”
He giggled a bit nervously, suddenly realising that it was the wrong time for a joke.
“Hector couldn’t show you anything,” protested Wimpey. “He’s just an Action Man.”
“Be quiet, you two,” said Tulip, with a careful eye to her husband who was obviously getting worked up and ready to let rip.
Granpa Mennym scowled. “If the younger members of this family cannot behave themselves,” he said, “they will have to leave the room. What on earth are we coming to?”
“Sorry, Granpa,” said Poopie.
“Sorry, Granpa,” said Wimpey fervently, though she had less reason to apologise.
Appleby flopped down on her stool again and said nothing. Pilbeam, seated on the floor beside her, gave her a look of sympathy. Appleby, she thought, was too complicated for her own good. There was a lot to be said for simplicity.
“What do you think we should do, Granpa?” asked Pilbeam, looking at her grandfather earnestly. Sir Magnus returned the look with one of solemn approval. Appleby would always be his favourite, but Pilbeam was much easier to live with!
“There is only one way,” he said, “that we can be sure that Albert Pond is a real person living in a real house in Durham. I must write him a letter. Vinetta must post it because she is above suspicion. She will take this letter to the post after I have written it and sealed it. I alone will know what is in it. Any reply that comes will, at my request, contain clear evidence that the writer has read my words.”
“That’s what I said,” Wimpey chirped up excitedly. “That’s what I told Soobie to do but he wouldn’t listen.”
“What do you mean?” asked Granpa, not quite following her words. “What did you tell him to do?”
“Write a secret letter to Albert Pond,” said Soobie. “And I did do it. I did it two days ago. If he is real, there should be a reply as soon as he comes home from his holiday.”
Granpa looked peeved. The blue Mennym had stolen his thunder. It was a very irritating pearl of wisdom to spring to mind just at that moment.
Joshua had sat silent the whole time. Now was his chance to say the only words he ever wanted to say at conference time.
“Well, that’s that then. If Soobie’s already written a letter, there’s no need for us to do anything else.”
He stood up and opened the door, giving the signal that the meeting was ove
r.
6
Albert Comes Home
WHEN ALBERT RETURNED to his little house in Calder Park after an ill-fated holiday in Europe, he found seven letters and a postcard on the doormat.
The letters weren’t all from Brocklehurst Grove, of course. One was from the University Library reminding him that his books were overdue. Another was from Castledean Council. The rest, with one exception, were from Mennyms.
Dear Mr Pond, (said the exception)
You may not have heard of me. I am not strictly speaking one of the Mennym family, though I do live in their household. I am nanny to Baby Googles. In most respects I am accepted as an honorary member of the family. Vinetta is my employer, but she insists upon my calling her by her first name and most of the time treats me as a dear friend.
It was, as you may imagine, with no little trepidation that we read your fascinating letter. We all look forward to meeting you at some convenient future date. In the meantime, I would like to use my small talent on your behalf, if you will permit. I am an artist. Mostly I paint still-life and landscapes, but I have done the occasional portrait and I would be honoured if you would send me a photograph that I could reproduce in oils for you. I have a medium-sized wood frame that is very nicely carved and gilded. It would be ideal for a portrait.
As to the threat to our home, I feel sure that you will be able to persuade the authorities to build their road elsewhere. Brocklehurst Grove is quite old and, in its quaint way, rather beautiful. I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours most sincerely,
Hortensia Quigley
It was a clever letter, or so thought its writer. If this Albert Pond existed, it would be a good thing to have a picture of him to check against any original that might appear. If he did not exist, then presumably the address in Calder Park would also be bogus.
Dear Mr Pond, (wrote Sir Magnus)
Your letter came as rather a shock. It is a good job I have a strong constitution. A less robust man of my age would surely have collapsed under the strain of it.
It seems to me, however, on reading and re-reading what you have to say, that the problem we have to face has not materialised yet. I have received no letters from the Council. There have been no notices in the press. None of our neighbours has tried to contact us, which surely in this extreme they would have done. So at the moment all we need to do is maintain contact in case the worst should occur. Please write to confirm this.
I am, as you may know, a writer myself. I have evolved a somewhat complex filing system. To assist in filing your reply, I would appreciate it if you would write the following words as a postscript: ‘Great is Diana of the Ephesians’.
With sincere regards,
Magnus Mennym
Of course the tale about the filing system was pure invention, as eccentric as the old man himself, though not in the same class as Appleby’s. It was much more transparent and crudely naive.
Appleby’s letter was surprisingly straightforward.
Dear Albert, (it read)
This is a simple request from a very simple person. Please make no further reference to your namesake in Australia. That episode is finished. No one mentions it anymore. It is an extremely delicate subject.
I must say how much I envy you your encounter with the ghost of Aunt Kate. I am rather psychic myself. The spirits of the past that hover round this house often make their presence felt to me. I have never mentioned this to any of the family. They would not understand. They are so extremely earthbound. Perhaps when you visit us we could hold a seance. I have this deep feeling that you will be the bringer of good fortune. No evil will touch this house once you have crossed its threshold.
I am,
Your kindred spirit,
Appleby Mennym
She had been tempted to write more. The prophetic flow was hard to resist, but the feeling that the sublime could become ridiculous acted as a curb.
Dear Albert, (wrote Pilbeam in her brief note)
Please, please be careful what you say about the other Albert Pond. If you really know everything about that matter, you could seriously upset Appleby. She has told some awful lies in her time, and will probably tell more, but she is deeply sensitive all the same, and more easily hurt than the rest of us.
Yours,
Pilbeam
And finally . . .
On the back of the picture postcard showing Castledean on market day, Wimpey had written:
This is our town. Do you like the marketplace?
Poopie and Wimpey Mennym
“There,” said Wimpey. “Now he’ll have to reply. We’ve asked him a question.”
Poopie didn’t answer.
“Well he will, won’t he?” persisted Wimpey.
“I suppose so,” said Poopie, though he wasn’t really interested.
Castledean Council had written to tell Albert that if he had an interest in the property known as 5 Brocklehurst Grove, there was no reason from the planning point of view why he should not proceed with the purchase. No plans affecting this property were envisaged at present. Someone in Castledean Town Hall was adept at writing with his fingers crossed. True, the motorway was not strictly speaking a matter of town-planning. It was part of a national programme. True, the final plans had not reached the council offices yet. But a straight road beginning due east of the Grove and continuing due west was certainly on some secret agenda. Aunt Kate knew, and so did the ‘someone’ with his fingers crossed.
7
A Letter from Albert
22 Colder Park
Gillygate
Durham
14th October
Dear Family,
I am sorry it has taken me so long to write to you. I omitted to mention, in my first letter, how long my holiday was to be. In fact, I have only just returned, having spent a fortnight in Paris, a week in Florence and a week and a half in Rome. I didn’t get to Naples, or I might have been away even longer. But more of that later . . .
Aunt Kate did tell me to enjoy my holiday. She did not tell me how difficult it would be to put her out of my mind. I kept imagining I could see her round every corner. In Paris, for example, I went with my friends to the Louvre. And there, standing in front of a painting by Poussin, was a woman who could easily have been Aunt Kate. For a split second I thought it was!
I went on to Florence alone. I was coming out of a dark little souvenir shop near the Duomo. The sun dazzled my eyes and I bumped into a tweedy woman who said briskly, “Mind how you go, young man.” The voice was near enough the same to give me goose-flesh, for all the heat.
In Rome I met up with some friends from the University and everything was fun till the Wednesday of the second week. We were walking in a busy street near the Castel Sant’Angelo bridge when it happened.
It was another brilliant, hot sunny day. There we were strolling along. Then suddenly on the other side of the roadway, I caught sight of another ‘Aunt Kate’ dressed in the usual tweeds, her only concession to the weather being a frilly white blouse instead of the woollen jumper. I stared at her. I couldn’t help it. Then all at once a policeman in a splendid white uniform was furiously blowing a whistle at me. At me?
One of our group yelled, “You can’t cross there, Albert.”
But I had crossed. I had a slow-motion collision with a fast-moving Fiat. It was a simple accident, but what followed, including my fractured leg, was terrifyingly complicated.
My left leg is now in plaster from the heel-bone to the thigh and will be for some weeks yet.
If all this does not prove to you that I am more than a bit inept on the practical side, I don’t know what will. I wish Aunt Kate had been able to find a better champion for your cause. Still, I am willing to do whatever I can. For the moment, that is very little. Till my leg is out of plaster, I am pretty well useless.
There is one crumb of comfort I can offer you. If Aunt Kate is right about the motorway, she has obviously received the warning well in advance. The tow
n-planners at Castledean know nothing about it. I pretended I was interested in buying your house and wrote for information about it before my holiday. I enclose their reply.
The photograph of myself is for Miss Quigley. It was taken three years ago, but I don’t think I have changed very much since. Tell Appleby my lips are sealed, and Pilbeam need not worry either, assure Soobie that I am as real as anybody, and thank Poopie and Wimpey for the picture of Castledean marketplace. When I am able to, I shall be delighted to pay you all a visit.
Kind regards to all,
Albert
PS. Don’t worry about me. I have friends who come in every day to help and a lady called Mrs Briggs comes three times a week to do the housework. P.P.S. Great is Diana of the Ephesians.
8
Some Truth, Some Lies
A CONFERENCE WAS held that very day. Sir Magnus was eager to see everybody as soon as possible. The afternoon sun was streaming in through the net curtains. On the whole, Granpa preferred the solemnity of an evening meeting, but it was Wednesday and Joshua would be going off to work.
All of the grown-ups in the family contributed to the household economy. Sir Magnus wrote articles on various subjects, but principally the English Civil War. He also composed crossword puzzles under the pseudonym Magnopere. Lady Tulip’s knitwear, trade-name tulipmennym, was sold exclusively to Harrods. Vinetta was content to sell the children’s clothes she made so beautifully to a local shop with some pretensions to being a boutique. Most of the business side was done by telephone and post and the proprietor, Cynthia Macaulay, held her lovely head so self-consciously high that she never looked closely at anyone, let alone the ‘little woman’ who delivered stock.
Joshua was the only one who had a real job that took him out of the house and into a workplace for five nights of the week. He was nightwatchman at Sydenham’s Electrical Warehouse, a job he dearly loved. Every night except Tuesday and Saturday, he walked the three miles to work, all muffled up. He accepted the keys from Max, the dull-witted, dim-sighted labourer who stayed behind to sweep the floors. In the morning he handed them over to Charlie who always arrived first. Sneaking out before Charlie could look him in the face was an art he had perfected over many years.
