by Sylvia Waugh
“Wouldn’t you like to try, Pilbeam?” Albert asked Soobie’s twin with a teasing smile. He knew what the answer would be; the question was asked in fun.
“No, thank you!” said Pilbeam. She was delighted to see her brother enjoying himself, but she felt no inclination to hurtle around the yard as he was doing. It was not her style.
“I’d like to try,” said Appleby, “and I am big enough.”
“No,” said Pilbeam. “I’d rather you didn’t, Appleby. I’m sure Granny Tulip is looking out of the window. She’d only be annoyed with you. She’s probably longing for Soobie to finish his ride.”
Appleby tossed her head so that her red hair, worn long and loose today, shook like a mane.
“I don’t care what Granny thinks. If I want to ride on the scooter, I will. I know I could ride it every bit as well as Boy Blue.”
Pilbeam gave her sister a very stern look.
“You care what I think,” she said in acid tones, “and I think you shouldn’t ride that scooter, and I think you shouldn’t call Soobie silly names, especially in front of other people.”
Appleby looked sulky, but she said no more.
Tulip, watching from the kitchen window, was relieved when Soobie finished his ride and put the scooter away.
18
Using Albert
“BUY A RANGE Rover,” said Sir Magnus, fixing Albert with a glassy stare. “See my wife about the money.”
Albert was sitting on a well-cushioned loom chair by the bed. He had been summoned there specially that afternoon. The family had been living in Comus House for a week and a half.
“They’re very expensive,” said Albert, wondering if Sir Magnus really knew about money. The older man gave him a knowing look.
“We don’t use Monopoly money,” he said. “We have had forty-odd years of earning, accumulating, and probably judicious speculating if I know Tulip. She is the expert at making money grow. See her.”
Tulip had her own office in the house by now. It was the cleanest, neatest and barest room in the house – another ‘breakfast-room’, next to the kitchen, facing out onto the stableyard. Albert did not tell her that it was one of two rooms that had been kept for his own use on occasional visits.
“Cleaner than the others,” she had said, looking round the small room on the first day. “This’ll do for me.”
Albert had been allowed to keep his own bedroom, another smallish, simple room on the first floor at the end of a long narrow passage.
“That’s my bedroom whenever I stay here,” he had said without opening the door. A wise move. Tulip might well have fancied it for herself!
“We can’t afford a brand new car,” she said when Albert told her of Sir Magnus’s decision. “Waste of money. Still, we do need a vehicle, out here in the wilds.”
She skimmed through a copy of Motoring Weekly which just happened to be on her desk!
“That one,” she said, pointing to an advertisement for a five-year-old model, “or something like it.”
The price would still have been much too high for Albert, but Tulip was even more intimidating than her husband. She looked at him with that nice, tolerant, sweet-old-lady expression, and he knew. He knew!
“I’ll write you a cheque,” she said. “Fill in the exact amount when you know what it is. Make sure you get all the right paperwork.”
Another thought occurred to Albert.
“Who will drive the car?” he asked.
“That’s a stupid question,” said Tulip. “You will. Who else?”
Albert’s brown eyes shone. All right – it would not be his very own car. But he would be the driver, the only driver.
“What about the tax and insurance?” he asked. “Have you thought about them?”
“I told you to see to the paperwork. What do you think paperwork is? Get the car. Get it on the road. And take Joshua home to Brocklehurst Grove. He is due back at work on Monday.”
So that was what it was all about! Well, that among other things.
“I could have hired a car for the day,” said Albert, determined to be fair.
“There’ll be other times when we’ll need a car, Albert. This is the back of beyond. We’ll need a car and we’ll need you. I can’t say I am happy about the situation, but we’ll just have to learn to live with it.”
Within two days, Albert had the Range Rover bought, taxed, insured and baptised with the fire of being thoroughly inspected inside and out and underneath by Poopie and Wimpey who found it completely enchanting.
Joshua was delighted. On Sunday evening he got into the sturdy, dark green vehicle and heaved a sigh of relief as he fastened his seat belt and settled down in the front passenger seat. Apart from Sir Magnus, everyone was there to see him off, even Miss Quigley with Googles in her arms. Albert climbed up into the driving seat.
“I’ll be back next Friday,” he said. “There are some things I need to see to in Durham. I’ll give you a ring in case there’s anything you want.”
“Mind how you go,” said Vinetta.
“Why can’t we come?” complained Poopie.
“Next time,” said Albert. “I’ll take you for a nice long drive next weekend.”
Tulip decided she would have to discuss the question of petrol with that young man, but for the moment she let it pass.
In the weeks that followed Joshua’s departure, Tulip was to learn that her reservations about Albert were unnecessary. He was totally honest. He used the car fairly, paid for his own petrol and drove with all due care and attention. He and Tulip were soon getting along famously. He liked to have everything down in black and white. He liked the books to balance. These were traits that endeared him to Lady Mennym! She revised her earlier opinion of him. He might look unimpressive but he had his fair share of good points. He was open and honest. He knew how to get straight to the point. He seemed fairly intelligent, even though his wide brown eyes often looked startled. Tulip came to see him as a likeable innocent, but very manageable and very, very useful.
“Now, Albert,” she said one day, “I have something I want you to do for me.”
Albert felt like hiding. He liked Tulip, he respected Tulip, but no relationship is perfect. Tulip, he soon discovered, always had something she wanted doing. Not like Vinetta! Poor Vinetta struggled on with the housework, making the place look cleaner and tidier every day. She even put on a mackintosh and wellingtons to do the washing, giving Albert a wan smile when he came into the kitchen.
“That must be hard,” he had said guiltily. “Let me put the clothes through the wringer for you.”
“No,” Vinetta had said firmly. “You do enough for us. I’ll be all right. It does feel a bit odd doing the work dressed up like this, but it is better than getting sopping wet.”
Tulip had also seen Vinetta hard at work. She did not go so far as to offer to help, but she did have some ideas on the subject. The thing she wanted Albert to do this time was not for her own benefit but for that of her daughter-in-law.
“We need a new washing machine,” she said.
Tulip flipped through the pages of a catalogue which just happened to be on her desk! Albert was soon to learn that Tulip always managed to have at her fingertips any information she might need. Her collection of catalogues was prodigious.
“That one,” she said.
“It’s an automatic. It’ll need to be plumbed in,” said Albert doubtfully.
“You can see to that,” said Tulip. “We’ll all stay out of the way till the plumber’s gone. It shouldn’t take him long.”
The plumber from Allenbridge was amazed when he saw the kitchen.
“I haven’t seen a kitchen like this since I was a lad. It should be in the Beamish Museum!”
“This was my grandparents’ house, Mr Golightly,” said Albert, not taking offence. “Even for their time, they lived in the past. I’m going to have it completely modernised eventually, but I need the washing machine straightaway.”
The plumbing to
ok two days. There were complications. More parts were needed, pipes to go here, tubes to go there.
“There now,” said Mr Golightly when he had finished at last. “At least you’ve got your washer going.” He looked round the room speculatively. “It’s not a bad shaped kitchen this, plenty of scope. Soon as you’re ready, give me a ring. Don’t bother with any of them fancy planners. They’ll charge you fancy prices. I’ll give you a fair deal and do you a good job.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Albert.
“Has he gone?” asked Wimpey from the stairs after the door banged shut. “Is he not coming back this time?”
“He’s gone,” said Albert, “gone for good. Come on down all of you and see the washing machine.”
Vinetta rang Joshua.
“I have an automatic washing machine,” she told him. “It’s wonderful, Josh. Much better than the twin tub. Just wait till you see it!”
19
Miss Quigley
COMUS HOUSE FACED west over a wide expanse of moorland stretching to a distant range of overlapping hills. Its grounds were unlike the gardens at Brocklehurst Grove. To the back there was no garden at all, just the huge, cobbled stableyard with the well near the rear wall. To the north side was the stable, which might at one time have been a barn and in later days had housed a family of cars. From the stable a rutted track, the width of two carriages, sloped down to the roadway. To the far side of this track was a vegetable garden.
The garden in front of the house was split in two by the steep flight of steps leading down to the white wooden gate and a ragged hawthorn hedge. It was roughly terraced with vertical slabs of stone supporting the soil and on each of three levels there were patches of grass edged with herbaceous plants. The top level either side of the steps was a smoother lawn that Joshua and Poopie had tamed in the first week and kept in order ever since. On the lawn to the south of the steps, Wimpey had a swing put up for her by Joshua on the stout bough of a sycamore tree. Miss Quigley also favoured the south side of the garden, away from the windows of the house. Here she would set up her easel and paint the moors and the hills and the country roads that went on and on forever.
“At least you like it here,” said Pilbeam one day as she looked over Miss Quigley’s shoulder. The artist shrugged her shoulders and pressed her lips together as one who could say more but wouldn’t. Pilbeam was used to Miss Quigley’s odd manner. She never quite understood, but she accepted her oddness as normal.
“Miss Quigley’s made a beautiful landscape picture,” said Pilbeam to Appleby, attempting to rouse the latter from a lethargy that had set in rather badly over the past few weeks.
“Has she?” said Appleby listlessly.
They were sitting on a bench in front of the drawing-room window. It was the beginning of August. The day was warm and sultry.
“Come and see it,” said Pilbeam.
“Can’t be bothered,” said Appleby. “You go if you like.”
Pilbeam looked annoyed.
“Listen, Appleby,” she said, “we all wish we were back home. You’re not the only one who doesn’t like it here. Try to make the best of things. Mother does. Granny does. And Miss Quigley.”
“Miss Quigley’s enjoying herself,” said Appleby looking across to the far lawn where Hortensia was absorbed in her work. “She likes it here. You can tell. All that beautiful landscape! She’ll be fancying herself as Constable or Gainsborough or some such. Well, let her get on with it. I’m not going to drool over her efforts.”
“You’re a spiteful little madam,” said Pilbeam. “I really don’t know why I bother with you.”
Pilbeam got up and went over to see the artist at work. Appleby gave a sigh and then trailed after her older sister.
Pilbeam took up her usual position by Miss Quigley’s right shoulder. She looked again at the painting. And gasped.
“What on earth did you do that for?” she asked, astounded at what she saw.
Wimpey, hearing the tone of Pilbeam’s voice, slid off her swing and came to look. Appleby came up behind her and stared at the painting. All she could do was echo Pilbeam’s words, “Why did you do that, Miss Quigley? You’ve spoilt it.”
“I don’t think ‘spoilt’ is the right word, my dear,” said Miss Quigley with a glint in her eye and in her voice. “I don’t feel as if I’ve spoilt it.”
The landscape of the day before, a sort of magical exaggeration of the real view in front of her, was still there, but now it was merely the background for a very intricate and precisely detailed black line-drawing of a three-storey house with two attic windows in the roof.
“It’s home!” cried Wimpey. “It’s our house in Brocklehurst Grove!”
It was!
In every tiny detail, perfectly remembered, from the chimney pots to the wrought-iron gate, it was an exact picture of Number 5 Brocklehurst Grove.
“Why?” asked Pilbeam, trying to make some sense of it.
“It is my version of line-and-wash,” said Hortensia with a bitter little smile. “The wash is where I am. The line is where I dearly long to be.”
Wimpey did not understand. Pilbeam understood. Appleby understood heart and soul.
“I know what you mean, Miss Quigley,” she said. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Miss Quigley looked satisfied. She turned on Pilbeam and in a very schoolmistressy voice she said, “Don’t ever say I like it here. I look out over those bleak moors and get weary of seeing nothing but earth and sky, day in, day out. I am not a countrywoman. That is something I have learnt.”
Googles, lying in the carrycot beside her nanny’s easel, heard the tone of voice and felt disturbed. She began to cry, at first whimpering and then settling for a full-blast bellow.
“There, there, my love,” said Hortensia going to pick up her charge and comfort her. “Poor lamb! You don’t like it here either. No park, no shops, no life at all . . .”
Wimpey went back and sat on the swing. Her older sisters sat down on the grass beside her, looking disconsolately at the world around them. On the moor, some distance away, a small flock of mangy-looking sheep plodded round aimlessly.
“Little BoPeep has lost her sheep,” sang Wimpey as she swung higher and higher.
“With sheep like those,” said Appleby, eyeing the animals, “I am not surprised. If I had to look after that lot, I’d want to lose them too.”
“Stop it,” said Pilbeam. “You sound feeble. Albert’s coming down tomorrow. Maybe he’ll take us for a drive.”
20
The Hundred Steps
HORTENSIA QUIGLEY TOOK to heart Pilbeam’s words about being feeble. She was a woman with iron in her soul. If yearning for Castledean could be thought of as feebleness, she was determined to do her bit to overcome it. That the words had been directed at Appleby made no difference. Hortensia always saw nuances of meaning even where there were none.
The next day was bright but breezy. Hortensia put Googles into a big perambulator that must have stood in the cloakroom for many, many years. The wheels were large with rusty spokes. The hood had been patched on the corners. The boat-shaped body, slung high above coiled springs, was painted dark blue and patterned with a white line that followed its shape. Hortensia gave it a very thorough clean out and replaced the ancient pillows and covers with Googles’s own.
“There,” she said. “Now we shall go for a nice little walk.”
She pushed the pram along the path in front of the house to the track at the far end that led down from the stables to the road. It was steep and uneven and not worthy of being called a drive.
Hortensia stood at the top looking out over the lovely, lonely countryside. The breeze blew round her, ruffling her fine, thin hair. From her handbag she took a chiffon scarf and tied it securely over her head and under her chin. She hooked the bag onto the pram handle. Then she set off down the slope.
She was wearing the same large-buckled brown leather shoes with stumpy heels that she’d had on the day Albert fi
rst saw her. She was not a countrywoman. They were not country shoes. As she went down towards the road, gripping the pram handle tightly and putting one foot gingerly in front of the other, disaster struck. One stumpy heel caught in a rut. Miss Quigley lost her balance. And the pram careered away down the hill with Googles letting out a scream of terror.
Another even larger rut bumped the pram up in the air and bounced the baby out onto the ground. The pram continued down the slope to the road and across into the moor where it turned over on its side and spilt out all the fresh clean covers.
Hortensia was horrified as she saw it all happen. She got up and staggered and stumbled to the bottom of the path where her beloved charge was lying face down and perfectly still.
She sat on the grass verge beside the baby. Gently and fearfully she picked her up and sat her on her knee. Googles was absolutely rigid, her arms and legs stiff, her back unbending. The perfect yellow curl that always graced the middle of her forehead was straggling down over her flat little baby nose. Her eyes, hazel flecked with gold that usually flashed and gleamed, were clouded over.
In the hawthorn hedge a bird was singing.
Hortensia hugged the baby tightly and felt a wave of despair sweep over her. But not for long. This was Hortensia Quigley who had lived for forty years in a cupboard. This was Hortensia Quigley who painted the most beautiful pictures. This was Hortensia Quigley, the best nanny in the world.
She stood up. Following some strange instinct that would not have worked with a human child, she held Googles by the feet and swung her very gently and rhythmically from side to side. At first the tiny figure just went with the rhythm, dead and unresisting. But within minutes Googles began to move her arms and struggle to free her feet. Then she yelled loud enough to startle the bird in the bush. It flew up and circled busily in the sky.
Hortensia turned Googles the right way up and cuddled her till the crying stopped.
“Now,” she said, “we must go home.”
