by Sylvia Waugh
“I don’t mind if you have a conference without me, Father,” Joshua had protested on this occasion as on many others. What he really meant was – please have your conference without me. I hate conferences and I prefer not to have my say, if that’s what you’re thinking.
“You’re entitled to have your say,” said the old man, though he knew perfectly well how Joshua felt. “It’s only right and proper.”
So there they all were, with varying degrees of enthusiasm or reluctance, gathered round the great man in the great bed, giving weighty consideration to Albert’s letter.
“Now, who else has been writing to Kate’s great-nephew?” Sir Magnus looked balefully at each in turn.
“We didn’t know for sure that you had written,” Soobie pointed out, “and everyone knew that I had.”
“Pilbeam?” Her grandfather looked at her directly.
“Well, yes, I did write a note. No harm in that, I hope.” There was something so self-possessed about Pilbeam that Granpa asked no more.
“And what about that picture he’s sent for you, Miss Quigley?” he asked.
Miss Quigley felt a bit flustered but she controlled it. She controlled it! Control had become a habit.
“I suppose Aunt Kate must have told him that I was a painter in my own small way,” she lied. “It might be his way of asking for a portrait.”
“Hmmph,” grunted Sir Magnus. “Bit too subtle for me. Still, it does give us a chance to have a look at the fellow.”
The photograph was passed round. It showed a young man in an academic gown. His hair was light brown and wavy. His face was rather long and pale. His eyes were his most remarkable feature. They were very round, very dark and very wide-open so that he looked childlike and rather startled.
“A poor reed, that one,” commented Granny Tulip. “He can’t look after himself, never mind trying to look after anyone else!”
When everyone had finished examining the photograph, Miss Quigley retrieved it and slipped it into the pocket of her cardigan.
“Why,” said Sir Magnus, returning to his questioning, “does he tell you that his lips are sealed, Appleby? What have you been saying this time?”
“That’s right,” said Appleby sharply, “go on, jump to conclusions. And be wrong as usual. As a matter of fact, I have never written him a letter. I didn’t think it was worth it. Soobie had already sent his. I can only think that Albert Pond is, as I am, telepathic. Thought waves transmitted by me have reached his consciousness. He assumes that I do not wish anyone to be aware of my psychic powers.”
The lie saved Appleby from having to explain why Albert’s lips were sealed, but, more than that, she enjoyed telling it.
Sir Magnus gave her a shrewd look, but satisfied himself with saying, “Bunkum! Total bunkum!”
“You see,” said Appleby, undeterred, “that is the normal reaction of the world to those of us who have the gift.”
“Chuck it, Appleby,” said Soobie. “We don’t believe you and we’re not impressed. Do you think we’re stupid? We know you wrote to him.”
“Poopie and me sent Albert Pond a postcard,” chimed in Wimpey, “and he must have got it, mustn’t he? He mentions it in his letter right at the end.”
“Yes, sweetheart,” said Vinetta, putting an arm round her daughter’s shoulders, “that was very nice of you.”
Poopie looked up from under his fringe.
“I want to ask something,” he said.
“Well, go ahead. Ask,” said Granpa indulgently.
“Who is Diana of the whatsit?”
“That, my boy,” said Granpa, “is what is known as a coded message.”
“But what does it mean?” Poopie looked stubborn.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” said Granpa flatly. “It is just a password proving that Albert Pond has received and read my letter. Any more questions?”
Sir Magnus glowered round the room as only he could glower.
“You know what the best bit of this letter is?” demanded Tulip.
“Come on then, tell us,” said her husband, relieved to change the subject. The password sounded silly to him now and he found himself in the very unusual position of feeling embarrassed.
“There is no motorway planned for our part of Castledean. Aunt Kate must have been mistaken. We can stop worrying.” That said, Tulip went on with her knitting.
“I don’t know,” said Magnus. “I don’t trust planners. Today’s truth is tomorrow’s fiction. And in the meantime, what do we do about Albert Pond?”
“Send him a get-well card,” said Soobie drily. “There’s not much else you can do for the moment.”
Appleby got away with being cheeky because she was Appleby, the apple of her grandfather’s eye. Soobie got away with it because Magnus was never totally sure whether he was being cheeky or not.
Joshua heard the silence that followed Soobie’s words and he breathed a sigh of relief. The meeting was surely over. There was nothing more to be said.
“He must be quite a wealthy young man,” commented Tulip as she stood up and gathered her knitting into its bag. “A holiday like that must have cost him a fortune.”
“No, he’s not,” said Appleby quickly. “He was saving up to get married and his girlfriend went off with somebody else. So he spent all he had on the holiday.”
“And how do you know that, pray?” asked Granpa. “Telepathy, I suppose?”
Appleby looked baffled. She gave a very convincing shiver.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know.”
Soobie, the sceptical blue Mennym, gave her a searching look. This born-knowing business was something he had never been able to get used to. It was certainly a hindrance when it came to sifting truth from lies.
“I’m going to bed,” said Joshua abruptly. “I can have a two hour nap before I get ready for work. We’ve said all there is to say for now, haven’t we?”
9
Albert Speaks
THE MONTHS PASSED. Albert received a charming get-well card from the whole family, a scatter of Christmas cards, and even an anonymous Valentine sent by Pilbeam and Appleby just for fun. He in turn sent them a progress report on the leg when it came out of plaster, and an old-fashioned glossy Christmas card with an embossed picture of a fat robin redbreast perched on a sprig of holly.
The motorway project remained under wraps for such a long time that they all began to believe Aunt Kate had made a mistake.
Then one day towards the end of March the telephone rang.
“Hello, hello,” said a worried voice.
“Who is that?” demanded Sir Magnus. There were two telephones in the house, one in the breakfast-room and one on Granpa’s bedside table.
“It’s me,” said the voice. “Albert Pond. I had to phone. Is that Sir Magnus?”
“You’ve never phoned before,” said Magnus suspiciously, listening hard for any indication that this masculine voice was just a disguise put on by a female of the household. “Is that you, Appleby?”
Albert Pond tried desperately to sound convincing.
“Of course it’s not,” he said. “I’m Albert. You know – Kate’s great-nephew. From Durham.”
Silence.
“Great is Diana of the Ephesians,” Albert added, thinking the old man might recognise this reference to his filing system.
“Well, if you really are you, what do you want?” demanded Sir Magnus. He wished he had never thought of using a password, particularly such a silly one. Was it going to haunt him forever?
“I had to phone you,” said Albert. “There’s something in this morning’s papers about the motorway. It is definitely going to be built and Brocklehurst Grove really is on the hit list.”
“We’ve heard nothing,” said Sir Magnus, unconvinced.
“It is still in the early stages,” said Albert, “but you will be hearing in the very near future. They’re sure to be writing to you.”
“What shall we do? We can’t
live anywhere else but here. You aren’t just making this up, are you?” said the old man. Albert’s earnest, frightened voice had nothing of the matter-of-fact in it. It might be a matter of fact that information about the road plans was on its way to them, but Albert’s voice filled Magnus with the fear of bulldozers and homelessness and being found out.
“It’s true enough, I’m afraid. I don’t know yet what we should do,” said Albert, “but I do think that now is the time we should meet. If it’s all right with you, I’ll come down Sunday after next. I’ll be on holiday then and if necessary, and if you want me, I’ll be able to stay for a while.”
Sir Magnus felt cornered. He knew that no one in the house really wanted this young man to visit them, however well-meaning he might be. Yet, if the house were really under threat, they would need help. They would need all the help they could get. There was no getting away from that.
“You’d better come, I suppose,” he said wearily. “A week on Sunday? Gives us time to get used to the idea.”
“I’m not all that bad,” said Albert, “and Kate did ask me to help. I’m really not trying to push myself where I’m not wanted.”
Sir Magnus suddenly felt ashamed of his ungraciousness.
“It’s not that, Albert,” he said quite gently. “Don’t forget what we are. It’ll be a shock to you to see us face to face, and that could be humiliating. We are used to human faces. We see them on television. Those of us who go out see them in the street. We will be the strange ones, and we will feel ashamed of our strangeness.”
Now it was said, Sir Magnus felt much better. Till it was said, he did not really know what he meant.
“I know,” said Albert. “I understand.” Inept he might be in all things practical, but he possessed intelligence and delicacy on a different level. His belief in Kate’s people was like a circle that had at that moment become complete. It filled him with pity.
“If we accept how strange we will appear to one another,” he said, “I feel sure the strangeness will soon pass.”
Aunt Kate’s choice of champion was not so very bad after all; an understanding heart is sometimes better than a cool, clear head.
“You will come then,” said Sir Magnus, “and you will help.”
“If I can do anything, I will,” said Albert, sounding worried. “We’ll work out something, all of us together. See you a week Sunday, then.”
“A week Sunday,” mumbled Sir Magnus and he replaced the receiver without even saying goodbye.
10
Waiting for Albert
THE ONLY MEMBER of the household wearing spectacles on the following Sunday was Tulip. She had on the usual little glasses that she used for knitting and reading. That was because she had been born wearing them.
It was deemed necessary to miss out the ritual of Sunday lunch.
“We will not make any effort to hide what we are,” Soobie had insisted. In fact, Soobie had virtually taken over the conference in Granpa’s room.
“We will not have any pretends when Albert Pond is here, if he comes. If there really is a flesh-and-blood Albert Pond who knows all about us, we don’t want him to think that we are completely daft. No pretend eating or drinking or anything else. Let him take us as we really are. Any other way is undignified.”
Appleby looked at Soobie suspiciously.
“What do you mean ‘if’ this, ‘if’ that? Surely you know by now that Albert is real.”
The blue-faced Mennym looked straight at her.
“If this is all a hoax,” he said, “I don’t know how the hoaxer has managed it. But till the real Albert Pond comes in through our front door, we won’t be completely sure.”
“If he does come,” said Vinetta, “I think we should make him welcome. I’ll buy some real cake and make some real sandwiches. We’ll even give him a real cup of tea.”
Appleby looked enchanted.
“It will be just like a pretend,” she said, “but it will be real. It’s marvellous. I’ve never thought of anything like that before.”
So in the kitchen the kettle was really ready to boil, the tea was in the pot. A willow-patterned cup and saucer stood on the tray together with salmon sandwiches, slices of Madeira cake and some half-chocolate biscuits.
“Where shall we have it?” Vinetta asked.
“Have it?” queried Tulip.
“Where shall we give him his tea?” repeated Vinetta more explicitly.
“On the dining-table of course. Where else?”
“But when Miss Quigley used to be a visitor, we always took her into the lounge,” put in Wimpey. “I remember. We always did.”
Miss Quigley nodded.
“Albert is different,” said Tulip. “He is not family. I think he’ll expect to eat at the dining-table. We needn’t put the cloth on. I’ll just put a place mat at the top of the table and he can sit there.”
Miss Quigley said nothing but she glowed warmly at Tulip’s implication that she, the visitor, now the nanny, had been given family status.
“And what will we be doing whilst Albert eats?” asked Soobie.
“We’ll sit round the table and talk to him and keep him company, of course,” said Granny Tulip, looking sternly at Soobie over the top of her little spectacles.
“Won’t he wonder why we aren’t eating?” asked Pilbeam, feeling a bit uncomfortable about this plan. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but it seemed odd.
Soobie gave her question some thought and came up with a logical answer.
“It would be worse if we pretended to eat in front of him. By giving him food, we are accepting him as he is. By not pretending to eat, we avoid looking foolish in his eyes.”
Pilbeam still felt uneasy, but she supposed that if Soobie was satisfied, it would be all right.
So there they all were, waiting for the arrival of the visitor. The day-nursery room and the lounge both had a view of the front path. Soobie was in his usual seat by the window. The rest of the family went from one room to the other as the fancy took them. Tulip, of course, just got on with her work. Granpa, naturally, was still in his bed. In due course, Albert would be presented to him and a family conference would be held. It was the younger members of the family who were most excited. Poopie and Wimpey had their faces pressed against the window panes despite repeated attempts by their mother and the rest of the family to get them to behave with more decorum.
Vinetta and Miss Quigley kept checking the tray standing ready in the kitchen.
“It looks all right, doesn’t it, Hortensia?” Vinetta asked anxiously.
“It looks lovely,” Hortensia reassured her employer. “I could just eat those sandwiches myself, if I could eat,” she added with the strange, uncharacteristic grin that sometimes stole across her plain cloth face.
Joshua sat staring gloomily at the gas fire in the lounge. One of his father’s pearls of wisdom kept drifting through his mind – the one about the devil and the deep blue sea.
Then . . .
Albert came.
He really came.
He walked hesitantly up the garden path and they had their first view of him. He was slim and narrow-shouldered. A lock of brown hair flopped over his broad brow. He was eyeing the front of the house as if he thought that something in there was about to come out and eat him. His expression was, if anything, even more bewildered than in his photograph. Vinetta’s heart went out to him. He seemed so vulnerable, standing there in a padded jacket that looked too big, his right hand gripping a shabby-looking grey suitcase.
Tulip came out of the breakfast-room when she heard the stir. It was she who opened the door as soon as the bell rang. A poor specimen, she thought, as she looked at the young man on the doorstep, not one to inspire confidence.
“You must be Albert Pond,” she said. “Come in. They’re all waiting for you.”
11
First Encounter
AS SOON AS the doorbell rang, Joshua and Soobie hurried into the dining-room and took their places at the table.
The younger twins followed but stayed in the doorway. Appleby and Pilbeam, eaten up with curiosity, stood in the most shadowy part of the hall where the little cloakroom jutted out. Miss Quigley was coming out of the nursery, and Vinetta was just behind Tulip.
So what was the first thing Albert saw as he stepped out of the little lobby into the dimly lit hall? He saw the big square buckles on Miss Quigley’s shoes! He dared not look up. He hardly dared to look ahead. So he looked down to his right and there were the buckles, comfortingly real on a very normal pair of ladies’ shoes. Tulip’s checked apron . . . Vinetta’s hands . . . two little heads looking round a doorway – one with a straight fringe across the brow, one with bunches of curls tied up in ribbons. Two older girls in the corner, fidgeting a bit nervously. That was a help. They were nervous too.
“Hello,” said Albert.
“Hello,” said various voices.
“Into the dining-room, girls,” said Vinetta as she took Albert’s coat and put it in the cloakroom. Then she left Tulip to see them all to their places whilst she fetched the tray from the kitchen.
Albert sat at one end of the long, dark, richly polished dining-table. On a very large green mat of loosely woven material, Vinetta placed the plates of food, a cup and saucer, a small matching teapot, a jug of milk and a basin full of sugar lumps. There was even a silver spoon, a tea-knife on a willow-patterned plate, and a delicate pair of sugar tongs. It looked completely right. Vinetta felt proud of herself, especially as she poured the tea and watched the hot brown liquid cascade into the cup.
“I’ll let you help yourself to milk and sugar,” she said as if she were used to entertaining. “Do have a sandwich. They are all real. I made them myself this morning.”
