by Paul Merton
The next morning Aubrey woke with a great sense of relief, only one more day, one more lunch, one more dinner and then escape. He was careful, while dressing, not to venture out on to the balcony and, with amazing luck, managed to get out of the hotel and into town without seeing Mr. Edmundson at all. He chose a table, partially screened by a flowering shrub, outside the “Bienvenue,” where he had sat the first afternoon of his arrival. It seemed incredible that it was only the day before yesterday—he felt as though he’d been living with Mr. Edmundson for weeks. The scene before him was as light and varied as ever, but he found after a while that he was looking at it with different eyes. A lot of the charm, the glitter of potential adventure had faded. He felt like some passionate virgin who had just had her first love affair and discovered it to have been both uncomfortable and dull. Rather pleased with this simile he jotted it down on the back of an envelope that he happened to have in his pocket. For instance, now, with this new, cynical disillusionment, he was certain that the man walking by with the pretty girl in a yellow beret was not her lover and had not just broken his leave in order to fly from Brussels to see her. Nor was the heavily made-up woman encased in black satin and wearing high-heeled white shoes the depraved Madame of a Brothel who had amassed a fortune out of the White Slave Traffic. Nor even was the ferrety-looking man in the gray raincoat carrying a violin case a secret agent. He was just a family man with five children. The made-up woman was probably the mother of six and the man and the girl were brother and sister and bored to tears with each other.
Elvira was wrong and so, damn it, was Somerset Maugham. The prospect of going through life alone in hotels and running the risk of meeting a series of Mr. Edmundsons was too awful to be contemplated. If that was the only way to gain material and inspiration he’d rather go back to antiques or write another play about his own family.
It depressed him to think that a man could live for fifty-four years like Mr. Edmundson and have nothing of the faintest interest happen to him at all beyond a problematical stone in the bladder. Of course he fully realized that a great writer with technique, humanity, warmth and vivid insight, such as Arnold Bennett, could make Mr. Edmundson an appealing hero for several hundred pages, but he himself felt that even though, in the far future, he should become a successful author, that sort of thing would, most emphatically, not be his line. He sipped a cup of delicious chocolate, with a large blob of cream on the top and anticipated the pleasures of Venice. He would sit on the terrace of a hotel on the Grand Canal and watch the sun setting over the lagoon, if it did, and the gondolas drifting by, and he wouldn’t speak a word to anyone at all in any circumstances whatever unless they looked so madly attractive that he couldn’t restrain himself.
He finished his chocolate, paid for it, scanned the horizon carefully and got up. There was an antique shop in a side street that he had noticed on his way to the café with some rather nice things in the window, and he thought he might go in and poke about a bit. He gave a little sigh. If only Maurice hadn’t been so tiresome and were here with him, what fun it would be. But still, if Maurice hadn’t been tiresome he would never have written Animal Grab and wouldn’t be here at all, so there was no sense in being wistful about that. He turned up the little side street and shot back into an archway while Mr. Edmundson, fortunately looking the other way, passed within a few inches of him. Aubrey giggled with relief at his escape and fairly scampered off to the antique shop. The man in the shop greeted him politely. His English was very bad and Aubrey was certain he had heard his voice and seen his face before. He routed about for nearly an hour, not finding anything of interest apart from a very lovely Italian mirror that would have made Maurice’s mouth water and some bits of rather fakey-looking cinque-cento jewelry. He bought a pair of malachite earrings for sixteen francs for Elvira, and was on his way out when his eye was caught by a small wooden Madonna. It was probably not older than eighteenth century or the beginning of the nineteenth and had once been painted in bright colors, but most of the paint had either faded or been rubbed off, giving the figure a pale almost ethereal quality. It was obviously of no particular value but certainly quite charming and might make a nice present for someone. He asked the man the price and was astonished to hear that it was two hundred francs. The man went off into a long rigmarole about it being very old and having belonged to the famous Marchesa something or other, but Aubrey, who wouldn’t have paid more than ten shillings for it at most, cut him short with a polite bow and went out. On his way back to the hotel he suddenly remembered where he had seen the man before and gave a little gasp of remembered embarrassment. It was the man who had asked for a light in the foyer of the cinema last night, and to whom Mr. Edmundson with agonizing heartiness had said, “Right you are, me old cock robin!”
As he was walking through the lounge the underwaiter who generally served their coffee after dinner stopped him with information that his uncle was waiting for him in the bar. Aubrey laughed, repressing a shudder at the thought. “That’s not my uncle,” he said, “that’s Mr. Edmundson.” The waiter bowed politely and Aubrey went up to his room to wash.
At lunch Mr. Edmundson seemed a little less animated than usual. Aubrey, feeling that he could afford to be magnanimous as there were only a few hours to go, explained that the reason he hadn’t seen him during the morning was that he had to get up early to go to Cook’s about his passport and do a little shopping in town. He told him about the antique shop and also, with a little edge of malice, about recognizing the man. “You remember,” he said, “the one you nearly knocked down in the Kursaal last night.” Mr. Edmundson had the grace to look rather startled for a moment and then gave a shamefaced laugh. “I think I was a bit over the odds last night,” he said. “That Swiss wine and the brandy after dinner.” Then he changed the subject.
4
Mr. Edmundson insisted on coming with Aubrey to the station, merrily waving aside all protests. In the hotel bus his conversation was more domestic than ever. Apparently an aunt of Mrs. Edmundson’s, hitherto concealed from Aubrey, had been living with them for nearly two years and was nothing more nor less than a damned nuisance. One of those whining women, always on the grumble and always causing trouble with the servants. They’d had altogether five parlormaids since she’d been in the house and now the present one was leaving, having told Mrs. Edmundson candidly that she just couldn’t stand it and that was a fact. When the bus reached the station Mr. Edmundson was seriously considering whether or not it wouldn’t be better and cheaper in the long run to set up the aunt on her own in a little flat in some seaside resort such as Herne Bay or Broadstairs. “After all,” he said, “it isn’t as if she’s all that old, seventy-three’s getting on I grant you, but she’s in full possession of all her faculties, a bloody sight too full if you ask me, and she could live her own life and do what she pleased and grumble to her heart’s content.”
When Aubrey had got himself and his bags into his sleeper there were still a few minutes to spare before the train went, which Mr. Edmundson utilized by sitting on the bed and reverting briefly to the subject of Mrs. Edmundson’s teeth. At last a whistle blew and he jumped up. “Well, bye-bye, old man,” he said. “It’s been jolly nice to have known you.” Then, to Aubrey’s embarrassment, he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coat and produced a small brown paper package. “I’ve bought you this this afternoon in the town just as a little souvenir. I know you like that sort of thing. No—” he held up his hand—“don’t start thanking me, it isn’t anything at all, just look at it every now and then and think of me and be good.” The train started to move, and he dashed down the corridor and out on to the platform. Aubrey, feeling guilty and ashamed, opened the package and was appalled to discover that it was the little wooden Madonna he had seen in the antique shop that morning. He turned it over in his hands; the head had been broken off at some time or other and been stuck on again. Two hundred Swiss francs! That was about ten pounds! He closed his eyes and felt himself blushing with mortification at t
he cruel thoughts he had harbored against Mr. Edmundson. Poor Mr. Edmundson. Pathetic Mr. Edmundson. That was the worst of bores, they always turned out to have hearts of gold; it was awful. He undressed pensively and went to bed. In the night he was half wakened by the figure of a man stretching across to his luggage on the rack. Drowsily he realized that the train must be at the Italian Frontier.
“Nothing to declare,” he muttered.
The man went away and he went to sleep again.
The next day, about a half an hour before the train was due to arrive in Venice, he unwrapped the Madonna again, which had been lying on the rack, and was in the act of putting it into his suitcase among his dirty washing when the head fell off and rolled under the seat. This tickled him enormously; he sat down and laughed until he cried. It really was too sad—poor Mr. Edmundson. He retrieved the head and tried to fix it on again, but it wouldn’t stick without glue. The body was hollow and he shook it upside down just to see whether or not any priceless jewels might have been concealed inside, but it was quite empty. People like Mr. Edmundson, he reflected, are born unlucky, they can’t even give a present without it being a failure.
*
Mr. Edmundson, on leaving the station, walked briskly down to the lake side and turned into the Bienvenue Café. It wasn’t very crowded, but the air was smoky and thick and the radio was turned on full. He sat down and ordered a beer and an evening paper. Two men in bowler hats were seated at a table opposite to him playing dominoes, one of them was the proprietor of the antique shop. After a little while he looked across at Mr. Edmundson and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. Mr. Edmundson looked casually round the room, nodded briefly and went on reading his paper.
THE SHOW
Richmal Crompton
Richmal Crompton (1890–1969) was born in Lancashire but moved to London to train as a school mistress. Her first story about William Brown appeared in Home magazine in 1919, and the first collection was published three years later. In all, thirty-eight ‘Just William’ books were published, with the Sunday Times describing them as ‘probably the funniest, toughest children’s books ever written.’
The Outlaws sat around the old barn, plunged in deep thought. Henry, the oldest member (aged 12¼), had said in a moment of inspiration:
‘Let’s think of – sumthin’ else to do – sumthin’ quite fresh from what we’ve ever done before.’
And the Outlaws were thinking.
They had engaged in mortal combat with one another, they had cooked strange ingredients over a smoking and reluctant flame with a fine disregard of culinary conventions, they had tracked each other over the countryside with gait and complexions intended to represent those of the aborigines of South America, they had even turned their attention to kidnapping (without any striking success), and these occupations had palled.
In all its activities the Society of Outlaws (comprising four members) aimed at a simple, unostentatious mode of procedure. In their shrinking from the glare of publicity they showed an example of unaffected modesty that many other public societies might profitably emulate. The parents of the members were unaware of the very existence of the society. The ill-timed and tactless interference of parents had nipped in the bud many a cherished plan, and by bitter experience the Outlaws had learnt that secrecy was their only protection. Owing to the rules and restrictions of an unsympathetic world that orders school hours from nine to four their meetings were confined to half-holidays and occasionally Sunday afternoons.
William, the ever ingenious, made the first suggestion.
‘Let’s shoot things with bows an’ arrows same as real outlaws used to,’ he said.
‘What things?’ and,
‘What bows an’ arrows?’ said Henry and Ginger simultaneously.
‘Oh, anything – birds an’ cats an’ hens an’ things – an’ buy bows an’ arrows. You can buy them in shops.’
‘We can make them,’ said Douglas hopefully.
‘Not like you can get them in shops. They’d shoot crooked or sumthin’ if we made them. They’ve got to be jus’ so to shoot straight. I saw some in Brook’s window, too, jus’ right – jus’ same as real outlaws had.’
‘How much?’ said the Outlaws breathlessly.
‘Five shillings – targets for learnin’ on before we begin shootin’ real things an’ all.’
‘Five shillings!’ breathed Douglas. He might as well have said five pounds. ‘We’ve not got five shillings. Henry’s not having any money since he broke their drawing-room window an’ Ginger only has a 3d a week an’ has to give collection an’ we’ve not paid for the guinea pig yet, the one that got into Ginger’s sister’s hat an’ she was so mad at, an’—’
‘Oh, never mind all that,’ said William scornfully. ‘We’ll jus’ get five shillings.’
‘How?’
‘Well,’ uncertainly, ‘grown-ups can always get money when they want it.’
‘How?’ again.
William disliked being tied down to details.
‘Oh – bazaars an’ things,’ he said impatiently.
‘Bazaars!’ exploded Henry. ‘Who’d come to a bazaar if we had one? Who would? Jus’ tell me that if you’re so clever! Who’d come to it? Besides, you’ve got to sell things at a bazaar, haven’t you? What’d we sell? We’ve got nothin’ to sell, have we? What’s the good of havin’ a bazaar with nothin’ to sell and no one to buy it? Jus’ tell me that!’
Henry always enjoyed scoring off William.
‘Well – shows an’ things,’ said William desperately.
There was a moment’s silence, then Ginger repeated thoughtfully, ‘Shows!’ and Douglas, whose eldest brother was home from college for his vacation, murmured self-consciously, ‘By Jove!’
‘We could do a show,’ said Ginger. ‘Get animals an’ things an’ charge money for lookin’ at them.’
‘Who’d pay it?’ said Henry, the doubter.
‘Anyone would. You’d pay to see animals, wouldn’t you? Real animals. People do at the zoo, don’t they? Well, we’ll get some animals. That’s easy enough, isn’t it?’
A neighbouring church clock struck four and the meeting was adjourned.
‘Well, we’ll have a show an’ get money and buy bows an’ arrows an’ shoot things,’ summed up William, ‘an we’ll arrange the show next week.’
William returned home slowly and thoughtfully. He sat on his bed, his hands in his pockets, his brow drawn into a frown, his thoughts wandering in a dreamland of wonderful ‘shows’ and rare exotic beasts.
Suddenly from the next room came a thin sound that gathered volume till it seemed to fill the house like the roaring of a lion, then died gradually away and was followed by silence. But only for a second. It began again – a small whisper that grew louder and louder, became a raucous bellow, then faded slowly away to rise again after a moment’s silence. In the next room William’s mother’s Aunt Emily was taking her afternoon nap. Aunt Emily had come down a month ago for a week’s visit and had not yet referred to the date of her departure. William’s father was growing anxious. She was a stout, healthy lady, who spent all her time recovering from a slight illness she had had two years ago. Her life held two occupations, and only two. These were eating and sleeping. For William she possessed a subtle but irresistible fascination. Her stature, her appetite, her gloom, added to the fact that she utterly ignored him, attracted him strongly.
The tea-bell rang and the sound of the snoring ceased abruptly. This entertainment over, William descended to the dining-room, where his father was addressing his mother with some heat.
‘Is she going to stay here for ever, or only for a few years? I’d like to know, because—’
Perceiving William, he stopped abruptly, and William’s mother murmured:
‘It’s so nice to have her, dear.’
Then Aunt Emily entered.
‘Have you slept well, Aunt?’
‘Slept!’ repeated Aunt Emily majestically. ‘I hardly expect to sleep in my st
ate of health. A little rest is all I can expect.’
‘Sorry you’re no better,’ said William’s father sardonically.
‘Better?’ she repeated again indignantly. ‘It will be a long time before I’m better.’
She lowered her large, healthy frame into a chair, carefully selected a substantial piece of bread and butter and attacked it with vigour.
‘I’m going to the post after tea,’ said William’s mother. ‘Would you care to come with me?’
Aunt Emily took a large helping of jam.
‘You hardly expect me to go out in the evening in my state of health, surely? It’s years since I went out after tea. And I was at the post office this morning. There were a lot of people there, but they served me first. I suppose they saw I looked ill.’
William’s father choked suddenly and apologised, but not humbly.
‘Though I must say,’ went on Aunt Emily, ‘this place does suit me. I think after a few months here I should be a little stronger. Pass the jam, William.’
The glance that William’s father fixed upon her would have made a stronger woman quail, but Aunt Emily was scraping out the last remnants of jam and did not notice.
‘I’m a bit overtired today, I think,’ she went on. ‘I’m so apt to forget how weak I am and then I overdo it. I’m ready for the cake, William. I just sat out in the sun yesterday afternoon and sat a bit too long and overtired myself. I ought to write letters after tea, but I don’t think I have the strength. Another piece of cake, William. I’ll go upstairs to rest instead, I think. I hope you’ll keep the house quiet. It’s so rarely that I can get a bit of sleep.’
William’s father left the room abruptly. William sat on and watched, with fascinated eyes, the cake disappear, and finally followed the large, portly figure upstairs and sat down in his room to plan the ‘show’ and incidentally listen, with a certain thrilled awe, for the sounds from next door.
The place and time of the ‘show’ presented no little difficulty. To hold it in the old barn would give away to the world the cherished secret of their meeting place. It was William who suggested his bedroom, to be entered, not by way of the front door and staircase, but by the less public way of the garden wall and scullery roof. Ever an optimist, he affirmed that no one would see or hear. The choice of a time was limited to Wednesday afternoon, Saturday afternoon, and Sunday. Sunday at first was ruled out as impossible. But there were difficulties about Wednesday afternoon and Saturday afternoon. On Wednesday afternoon Ginger and Douglas were unwilling and ungraceful pupils at a dancing class. On Saturday afternoon William’s father gardened and would command a view of the garden wall and scullery roof. On these afternoons also Cook and Emma, both of a suspicious turn of mind, would be at large. On Sunday Cook and Emma went out, William’s mother paid a regular weekly visit to an old friend and William’s father spent the afternoon on the sofa, dead to the world.
