Miss Buncle's Book

by D. E. Stevenson

  “It’s really mine,” Barbara told her. “I had better go and see Mrs. Featherstone Hogg and explain it all.”

  “My dear, it’s not necessary. They’re quite pleased now and the twins will soon be back. I’d really rather you didn’t go and muddle it all up, if you don’t mind. You see nobody would believe you and it would complicate matters.”

  “It would clear matters up.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Sarah said firmly. “It would complicate the whole thing, and I might not get the twins back or something. I wish I hadn’t been such a fool as to let them go to that party. I should have smelt a rat when they didn’t invite me—”

  “Who could have thought—”

  “Nobody except Vivian Greensleeves; it’s exactly the sort of plan she would think of. I wonder if Mrs. Featherstone Hogg is giving her something for doing it. You will notice that Mrs. Featherstone Hogg is keeping well out of it all herself.”

  “You could have them up for kidnapping,” suggested Barbara wildly.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Sarah, wrinkling her brows. “They’ve been pretty wily about the whole thing, you know. Vivian and Mr. Stratton took them for a run in his car—it’s a new car, the sister told me, and he’s very proud of it—we couldn’t prove that he had any intention of not bringing them home. As a matter of fact I expect he would have brought them back safely whether I signed the beastly papers or not—but I wasn’t going to risk anything. I wonder what I had better do about telling John. Shall I tell him or not? He would be frightfully angry, of course. What would you do about it if you were me?”

  Barbara had no idea what she would do if she were Sarah. She was completely bamboozled by the whole affair.

  “Perhaps I had better tell John about it,” continued Sarah thoughtfully. “He might hear a garbled version of it from somebody else.”

  “Yes,” said Barbara dazedly. “Well, I think I’ll just go home now, Sarah. Dorcas will be worried, and I can’t do any good here—”

  “You might wait until they come—until somebody comes,” said Sarah quickly, just in case of—of anything. I’m upset; I’d hate to wait here all alone with nobody to talk to. Nannie will be back in a minute or two—I telephoned to her that everything was all right; the poor soul was completely flummoxed—”

  “No wonder,” exclaimed Barbara.

  The twins arrived first. The bell rang, and Fuller discovered the two little figures on the doorstep. They ran into the house, quite happy and full of excitement at their unusual adventures. They had no idea, of course, that their mother had aged about ten years in their absence.

  “Me an’ Jack had a lovely d’ive,” cried Jill.

  “I ’ike Bob,” said Jack. “He gave me a chockit.”

  Sarah swept them into her arms and hugged them ecstatically; they were both a little surprised at the fervor of her embrace.

  “You’re squashing my nose, Mummie,” said Jill reproachfully in a muffled voice.

  “Well, I think I’ll go home now,” Barbara said. “You’ll be all right now, won’t you?”

  “I haven’t half thanked you,” said Sarah, raising a flushed face and tear-filled eyes. “You’re a real friend, Barbara dear. It was splendid of you to come so quickly and to think of that plan of yours. I’d have let you do it, if it would have got my babies back any quicker, but it was easier the other way. Perhaps someday we shall know who John Smith really is.”

  “It’s me,” said Barbara in a last despairing effort. “It really is me, Sarah. Really and truly.”

  “We wrote it together, didn’t we?” Sarah said, smiling and nuzzling into her babies’ necks like a mother-cow. “And Jack and Jill helped too—didn’t you my precious loves? You filled Mummy’s pen for her so that she could write funny stories about Mrs. Featherstone Hogg.”

  “I got a paper yat out of a c’acker,” cried Jack, escaping from his mother’s arms and jumping up and down in front of her, “I got a paper yat out of a c’acker.”

  “I got a fistle,” shouted Jill, “Mummie, I got a lickle fistle—”

  Barbara went away and left them—there was nothing more she could do. Sarah didn’t need her anymore; Sarah was perfectly happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Miss Buncle’s Day in Town

  Barbara Buncle had been bidden to lunch at The Berkeley with her publisher. It was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to her; she was excited for days beforehand.

  Even Sally—who was deeply immersed in important affairs of her own—was aware that Barbara was unusually animated and gay.

  When the great day arrived, Barbara decided to go up to town early and combine the outing with a shopping orgy; she therefore arrived at The Berkeley with weird-shaped brown paper parcels hanging painfully upon every finger—a solecism of which Elizabeth Wade would never have been guilty.

  Mr. Abbott had been waiting for ten minutes, and he was surprised to see her with so many parcels, but she was so flatteringly pleased to see him that he forgave her all her sins immediately. He led the way to a table, which he had reserved, near the window, and sufficiently far from the band to make conversation possible, and helped the waiter to disentangle Barbara’s fingers. Then they sat down and the lunch began.

  Barbara enjoyed it all tremendously. She was Elizabeth most of the time, of course, for this was an Elizabethan sort of party—having a tête-à-tête lunch at an expensive restaurant with a distinguished-looking man—but sometimes she was Barbara for a few minutes, and then she felt a little shy, and awkward, and humble.

  Mr. Abbott was very attentive. He had become increasingly attracted by Miss Buncle and today she was at her best. Her appearance was a credit to him; her conversation intrigued him. You never knew what Miss Buncle was going to say next. At one moment she seemed a sophisticated woman of the world, and the next she seemed as innocent and confiding as a child. Mr. Abbott could not know that he was really entertaining two ladies to lunch at The Berkeley, that two ladies were laughing at his jokes and his light badinage—so appropriate to the occasion.

  The conviction had been growing in Mr. Abbott’s mind that Miss Buncle was the woman he had been waiting for all his life. She was attractive to look at, she was good-tempered and full of fun, and she was obviously extremely healthy. He found her amusing and provocative. She was clever enough, but not too clever (Mr. Abbott did not like a woman to be better off in the way of brains than he was himself; Miss Buncle wasn’t). Last, but not least, there was something very fresh and innocent about her which appealed to Mr. Abbott immensely.

  It sounds very matter-of-fact put like this, but Mr. Abbott was a matter-of-fact businessman. It was his nature to weigh the pros and cons before he decided upon anything important. He was tremendously attracted by Miss Buncle but he was not exactly swept off his feet by her charms—perhaps he was rather old to fall in love in a headlong fashion, perhaps he was rather old to be swept off his feet—

  Mr. Abbott decided that he would wait until he had the manuscript of the new novel in his hand before offering the author his heart. Whether or not Miss Buncle accepted him—and he had no idea what her feelings were—the proposal was bound to unsettle her mind, to knock her off her balance, so to speak. Once the new novel was completed he did not mind whether there was another John Smith or not. If she wanted to write she should write, and if she did not want to write she need never write another word—he would be her dividends. But he did want just one more John Smith, and he wanted it soon, for the amazing sales of Disturber of the Peace were waning now and it was the right moment to publish another novel from the pen of John Smith: “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.” Mr. Abbott felt that it would be a thousand pities to lose the tide.

  “And what is the new novel to be called?” inquired Mr. Abbott with interest.

&n
bsp; “Well, I thought of calling it The Pen is Mightier—,” Barbara said confidentially, “but I don’t mind if you can think of something better—at least not very much,” added Barbara, not altogether truthfully, for she would mind a good deal if the new novel had to be called something else. She was rather pleased with the name; it expressed her deepest convictions—had she not seen in the last few months what a mighty weapon the pen could be?

  “I like the name,” replied Mr. Abbott. “Of course I haven’t read the novel yet, but I like the name. How soon can you let me have it?”

  “It’s nearly finished.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Abbott smiling.

  “But I don’t know how to finish it. I’ve come to a stop,” said Barbara, tasting her pêche Melba and deciding that it must have come straight from Paradise.

  “Bad,” said Mr. Abbott, frowning.

  “I’ve thought and thought,” said Barbara with a sigh. “Sometimes the whole thing seems the most awful rubbish, and I feel like throwing it in the fire.”

  “No, no!” exclaimed Mr. Abbott anxiously. “No, no—that would never do. Don’t do that on any account. It’s just that you are stale.”

  “I suppose I am,” said Barbara sadly.

  “All authors get stale,” said Mr. Abbott with a comforting smile, “even the very best of bestsellers. I tell you what. Send it to me, if you like, and I’ll read it over. I might be able to make a suggestion which would help you.”

  “Would you really?” said Barbara, brightening up at once. “Would you read it and see what you think? Wouldn’t it be a fearful bother for you, Mr. Abbott?”

  “It would be a pleasure,” he replied gallantly.

  After lunch Mr. Abbott took his guest to see a film which was said to be “The Most Stupendous and Utterly Amazing Production of our Time.” Mr. Abbott was stupendously bored at the amazing production, and he was glad to note that Miss Buncle was also bored. He was glad, not because he liked to bore his guests with stupendous productions, but because it showed more unmistakably than anything that had gone before that Miss Buncle was the right woman. If His Wonderful Pal bored Barbara Buncle, she would do. Most of the women round them and a good many of the men were following the hair-raising adventures of His Wonderful Pal with tense interest. In a way Mr. Abbott admitted that it was amazing.

  It was amazing that anybody could have contemplated the filming of such a thing and of course the sum spent upon the production was stupendous—he didn’t need the program to tell him that—but the story was so puerile that it would not have contented an average child of ten years old. It was simply an excuse for scenery and love scenes. He cheated at cards—at least they said he had—and everybody thought he had except “His Wonderful Pal.” She believed in him, of course, but he told her he couldn’t possibly marry her until he had vindicated himself. To vindicate himself he had to visit the court of the Great Mogul (nobody knew why he had to do this, and most of the audience was too drugged by the really amazing scenery to have any critical faculty left).

  “His Wonderful Pal” followed him at a discreet distance to watch over his safety, and passed through incredible adventures in the jungle, carrying them off with a sang-froid beside which the sang-froid of Elizabeth Wade paled into insignificance. “His Wonderful Pal” arrived at the court of the Great Mogul just in time to save her lover from the machinations of a man in whose truth and loyalty he had never doubted—it was her woman’s instinct that warned her he was No Good. Most people with two eyes in their head would have seen from the very beginning that the man was No Good (what could you expect of a man with a wall-eye and a black gap in his front teeth?), but the lover trusted him implicitly in spite of these indications of a black heart and was very nearly in the soup.

  The arrival of “His Wonderful Pal” at the court of the Great Mogul was accompanied by earthquakes, and tropical thunder and lightning; and the Great Mogul’s Palace fell down, column by column, and crushed everybody to death—except, of course, the lovers. These fortunate survivors were quite oblivious of the fate of the Great Mogul and his myrmidons, nor did they make any attempt to succor the wall-eyed traitor who was pinned by the leg under a fallen column and was expiring in agonies. They left him to his well-deserved fate and escaped together through alligator-infested swamps, and tiger infested jungles, and carried on intermittent but harrowing love scenes—on one occasion while being pursued by a rogue elephant.

  Her sang-froid had disappeared by now, but not her permanent wave, and she wept huge oily tears and declared that if he didn’t marry her she would throw herself over a cliff—which had most conveniently appeared in the middle of the jungle—and thus end her useless and miserable existence. “Do people really behave like that?” Barbara whispered to Mr. Abbott.

  “God forbid!” replied that gentleman fervently. “Shall we go?” Barbara nodded; she had forgotten that a nod cannot be seen by one’s companion in the gloom of a picture house.

  “Would you like to go out?” Mr. Abbott repeated after a minute or two. During this time “His Wonderful Pal” had almost thrown herself over the cliff but not quite, of course. He had just managed to catch her in time and the two were now locked in a frantic embrace. A woman sitting just in front of Mr. Abbott was sobbing openly into her handkerchief…

  “Yes, let’s go,” whispered Barbara.

  They went as quickly and silently as they could, stumbling over people’s umbrellas and treading on innumerable toes. Everybody was furious with them for blocking out the scene at the most critical, or at any rate one of the most critical moments in the drama.

  “Whew!” said Mr. Abbott, as they emerged into the cool bright air of day. “Whew, what an experience. I feel quite battered. What about a cup of tea?”

  Barbara thought it would be nice, and they found a small tea-shop, requisitioned a small table, and gave their order.

  “I could never think of anything like that,” Barbara said, as she drew off her gloves and put them on an empty chair—she was referring of course to the incredible adventures they had just witnessed.

  “Thank God for that!” exclaimed Mr. Abbott reverently.

  “I have no imagination, you see,” Barbara continued sadly, “I can only write about real things—things that really happen, I mean. How do people think of things like that? They must have quite different brains from ordinary people.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Abbott vaguely. He was watching Miss Buncle demolishing crumpets and his admiration at the feat was intense—what a digestion she must have! His lunch was still lingering in the region of the second button of his waistcoat, yet he was sure he had eaten no more than she had—

  “I’ve no idea how people think of things like that,” continued Mr. Abbott, when his surprise had somewhat abated. “I wish they didn’t, don’t you? Perhaps they dream them after a visit to the Zoo and a heavy supper of toasted cheese.”

  Barbara laughed, and then sighed. “It would be rather nice to be able to write things like that. People seem to enjoy them—(I suppose if they cry it does mean they’re enjoying themselves?)—and there would be no chance of people recognizing themselves and being cross about it. I don’t know what I shall find to write about when I have finished The Pen is Mightier—”

  “Copperfield played out?” inquired Mr. Abbott sympathetically.

  “Just about it, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t worry, something will turn up. Take a little holiday after The Pen is Mightier—. You really deserve a little holiday, you know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Pen Is Mightier—

  The Pen is Mightier— was waiting for Mr. Abbott when he got home from the office next day. He tore it open eagerly; he was quite excited about it. Miss Buncle was an enigma to Mr. Abbott, both as a woman and as an author. Sometimes he felt he understood her quite well, and sometimes he felt that he d
id not understand her at all. He hadn’t the remotest idea what her new book would be like—it might be the most appalling rubbish, or it might be a bestseller. Mr. Abbott was rather afraid that Disturber of the Peace was a sort of fluke and that Miss Buncle might never write another word worth reading, but he might be quite wrong, of course; he hoped he was quite wrong. He settled down comfortably to read.

  The Pen is Mightier— was still “all about Copperfield,” just as Miss Buncle had said. Mr. Abbott recognized the same characters in it as had appeared in Disturber of the Peace, but there were new characters too: Mr. Shakeshaft, the Vicar, Miss Claire Farmer, a granddaughter of old Mrs. Farmer (who had worn a wig and put pectin in her famous damson jam), and Mrs. Rider, the doctor’s wife.

  Mr. Shakeshaft was depicted as a serious, devout young priest, deeply in the toils of Mrs. Myrtle Coates, who supposed him to have a great deal of money. Mrs. Myrtle Coates had appeared in the pages of Disturber of the Peace (Mr. Abbott remembered the character distinctly); she was, in modern parlance, a “gold digger” and had been mixed up with an unpleasantly second-rate young man. This new imbroglio with the Vicar of Copperfield was no credit to Mrs. Myrtle Coates; she led him on in a shameless manner, and then threw him over at the last minute, because he had lost all his money in a bank smash. So much for the Vicar and Mrs. Myrtle Coates.

  The main theme of the book was concerned with the fortunes and misfortunes of Elizabeth Wade—Miss Buncle’s other self. Miss Wade wrote a book, and the story of Miss Wade’s career as a novelist was the story of Miss Buncle’s own extraordinary experiences. Miss Wade wrote a book and placed it with Messrs Nun and Nutmeg (the name made Mr. Abbott roar with laughter). This spicy firm published Miss Wade’s book and it immediately became a bestseller. The book was “all about” Copperfield, and Copperfield was annoyed or pleased according to how it found itself in Miss Wade’s book. Miss Wade’s book, which was entitled Storms in a Teacup, by J. Farrier, was discussed and criticized very harshly by the Copperfieldians—at least by those of them who had no discernment; the others saw genius, which, of course, was clearly proved by the absolutely unprecedented sales. The theme was unusual, and intriguing. Mr. Abbott had never before read a novel about a woman who wrote a novel about a woman who wrote a novel—it was like a recurring decimal, he thought, or perhaps even more like a perspective of mirrors such as tailors use, in which the woman and her novel were reflected back and forth to infinity. It made your brain reel if you pursued the thought too far, but there was no need to do so, unless you wanted to, of course. So much for the main theme.