‘That’s life,’ I said. ‘Life in the raw as seen by a landlady in a sunny seaside town.’
‘I wonder if I should return to Leslie’s, dear,’ Mother said too brightly, cunningly starting an elaboration of reasons why. ‘I have a feeling that perhaps he needs me, and that all is not well with the new dog …’ She faltered in her embroidery, realizing by my calm expression that her little plan to impress was failing.
I waved Mother’s excuses aside, refusing to pander to retreat. ‘Perhaps it is something to do with the moon. Where’s my book on the mind-madness and all that sort of thing?’
‘We might all be done away with in our beds, that’s what,’ Mother murmured with all the sad poignancy of a last post as if somebody had already been laid to rest. ‘Especially as you have the silly and dangerous habit of leaving all the doors and windows unlocked.’
‘Oh, that,’ I said carelessly.
‘I shall have to resume my precautions of looking under my bed at night while I am in this house, and I had just decided that perhaps it was not necessary.’
I tried to brush Mother’s fears away with colourful descriptions of a house full of saner elements, possessing the milk of human kindness.
‘Nevertheless I feel distinctly nervous now,’ she insisted firmly. ‘In fact this consolidates my opinions of the other day that this is turning into a thoroughly unreliable household.’
‘Just because of one case of slight eccentricity there is no need to tar all the others,’ I complained. ‘Now take Roger, for instance …’
There was a quick interruption: ‘I was not at all sure about that fellow in the first place,’ Mother confessed. ‘I mean he has landed you with that queer-looking girl mooning about the place. She has been here today looking for you, walking barefoot like some male aborigine with twigs in her hair.’
I accepted the unusual description of Magda with complete calm, for I felt sure it was one of Leslie’s.
‘And then there’s his friend who seems to be no better, as far as I can see, with a one-track mind that always leads to his trombone.’
This I could not accept, but I thought it wise to remain silent.
‘Though I must say he is good with the children,’ she softened a little towards Andy as she gave the matter thought. ‘You’ve had smugglers, too …’
‘You can hardly call them smugglers!’ It was my turn to interrupt – Mother was going too far.
‘The police had to come didn’t they? Well, that’s enough if the law was forced to call; the principle of the thing is the same whether it is opium or some other minor thing. It’s obvious that you attract the weirdest sort of people. How do you know you will not in time harbour a vicious murderer, a sex maniac, or a white slave trafficker?’ Mother was back with her old fears. ‘And the bank manager’s face looked none too hopeful when he discussed you either.’
‘Oh, that old fusser,’ I remarked, scornfully disloyal, for without him I would not have survived so far.
‘I’d advise you, dear, to keep in with him.’
‘I do,’ I said hastily, ‘but I shall avoid him in future.’
But Mother was still living with her fears. ‘You might end up in the newspaper,’ she went on nervously. ‘Once you get into one of these vice rings I am told it is difficult to escape. They keep you half-naked, deliberately, so that you cannot escape.’
‘Really?’ I couldn’t help wondering where Mother received her inside information. ‘I suppose if I am going to attract lunatics I shall attract them wherever I am,’ I reasoned, sensibly enough, with not quite the same gloomy interpretations as my mother. ‘Anyway, I don’t think the vice ring would be interested in someone who has had children. It’s virgins they are after, I expect, and they won’t find one of those in this house I shouldn’t think, at whatever shining angle the halo is worn.’
‘Really, you do talk rubbish sometimes.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I acknowledged gloomily, ‘it’s part of my charm.’
‘I should leave others to decide that,’ the remark was crushing. ‘No, the trouble is being alone. When people find out it’s only a woman they have to deal with they take advantage. I soon found that out when I became a widow.’
I had no doubt she was right. ‘But,’ I prophesied gaily, ‘consolation lies in the fact that there must be hundreds of women being taken advantage of all over England, and some more pleasantly than others, I’m sure,’ I ended on the whimsical note of Mrs Williams.
‘Quite,’ said Mother, missing my implications.
‘Have the children arrived back yet?’ My maternal instinct was back with me.
‘Yes, indeed, as happy as larks but with an exhausted father. I can’t think why, when men have to look after children for more than five minutes, they behave as though they’ve done twenty-four hours of hard physical labour.’
‘Typical of men – some men,’ I added hastily, quoting my Aunt Patience for a moment.
‘Exactly,’ said Mother, ‘now you know why I have remained a widow!’
Mother and Aunt Patience both shared the same views of the male population: there was only one man as far as Mother was concerned and that was Father, and none at all for Aunt Patience.
‘And where are the little angels now?’ I enquired, hoping that they were happily occupied.
‘Having another tea with that Andy man. I must repeat that is one thing in his favour, he is good with children – any man who is good with animals or children must have a special quality somewhere,’ she ended generously and then spoilt it all by adding, ‘even if it is not apparent.’ But I wasn’t listening as I flew upstairs with the odd stir that climbing the stairs now instilled in me.
The evening had passed uneventfully. There were no more stirrings from Mrs Greenfield and I decided to wait and see before I tackled her about her curious behaviour. The next day was also quiet, and Mother began to breathe more freely again, and to walk without gazing behind her as if expecting a surreptitious blow. In fact she became so brave as to visit Edward in his den, spend an hour upstairs unravelling Mrs Williams’ crochet – a vest for Nelson who insisted on having one like Mr Budden’s – who wasn’t finding the pattern easy; she even announced her intention of strolling a few minutes in the garden in the seclusion of the apple trees.
We gathered together again, a trifle self-consciously perhaps, as our optimism grew, and we felt it had all been an illusion, brought on by the unusual heat. Harriet must have had a day on the bottle; there was no other explanation.
It was just after Mother had taken her walk, and had been forced to retrace her steps at great speed, frightened by the crunching of footsteps down the garden path next door (for her dread of getting involved in our suburban machinations had risen to gigantic proportions by now). She had just entered the safety of our house remarking ‘that was a near one’, when we both noticed with fascination a large envelope being slowly thrust under the door. For one awful moment I thought it was Edward’s pornographic pictures, and that he was now having a brainstorm, but picking it up quickly I recognized the huge scrawling handwriting that indicated Harriet’s presence behind the closed door.
The note was addressed to Mrs Durrell and underneath the message said: ‘If you will return the scarf you have stolen from my suitcase I will not inform the police.’ The signature was a grand flourish of swirling letters.
‘Mother,’ I grinned, ‘it’s for you, a small offering from one of your admirers, and not Mr Beetle either.’ I gave it to her and stood back to watch the result of Harriet’s fresh attack.
‘Really?’ Mother remarked with interest, taking the envelope, ‘now who could it be, I wonder?’ she said, examining the scrawl in a friendly way. There was a long pause, while the significance of the message struck her. In a series of gasps, leading to a final explosion of vindictive and penetrating comment, words came that I had never heard Mother use before.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t upset the lodgers, Mother,’ I complained. ‘It’s as
bad as having Gerald in the house, I must say.’
‘I’ll ring my solicitor at once, the old lunatic.’
‘Come on, out with it. Where’s the scarf?’ I teased. ‘Don’t tell me you are going to cause a scandal in your old age, and get taken in for petty theft.’
‘Indeed,’ Mother drew herself up to her full five foot, with worthy indignation. ‘I’ve never heard of such a piece of cheek, the woman’s an obvious lunatic. I’ve a good mind to go up now and give her a piece of my mind.’
‘I wonder if she still has that knobkerrie?’ I reminded Mother pointedly. ‘But do go, Mother,’ I urged, still teasing her, for I knew exactly what Mother’s peace of mind constituted: kindly words with a gentle apologetic smile as if she were really the culprit. She would most probably return really believing that she had the scarf, or that some other poor innocent was to blame.
Mrs Budden entered stealthily, not waiting for an answer to her knock. The jelly-look had gone. We were faced with a dilapidated flower garden, a fluttering smock with three buttons missing which did not stir the imagination to romantic heights. Her normally pallid face was flushed unnaturally and she was breathing hard. In fact, I reflected, both she and Mother wore the same expressions.
‘Anything the matter?’ I enquired, my mind already occupied with the reason.
‘It’s that woman again: she tied a rope across the landing and I nearly broke my neck.’
I drew her quickly away from the door into the kitchen, automatically putting on the kettle. I knew this was only the beginning. Mother followed clucking, with a noise that would outdo the Briggses broody hen.
‘Perhaps it’s Nelson?’ The suggestion, though unfair, held less sinister implications, I felt. For once Mrs Budden refused to blame Nelson.
‘This is serious, Margo,’ Mother broke forth, sounding like Edward. ‘Action is called for.’
‘I quite agree,’ Edward had entered the scene. ‘The whole place is knotted in rope,’ he remarked wonderingly.
‘Mother is having trouble, too, but in a different way.’
‘And what’s she doing with all those bulbs, anyway?’ he asked thoughtfully.
A door slammed somewhere upstairs. Mother and Mrs Budden exchanged significant glances and then came Nelson’s delighted enquiry: ‘Anyone ’anging themselves today?’ as he joined us.
‘This is no time for fatuous remarks, my dear boy.’ Edward was stern.
‘She’s an obvious ’omosexual maniac,’ Nelson diagnosed the case.
‘You’ve got the wrong word,’ I remarked, laughing.
‘You must give her notice at once,’ Mother was quite decisive, now that she didn’t have to take immediate action herself.
I exclaimed in consternation. If there was one thing I dreaded, it was having to give anybody notice – a fact which Mother, Edward, Gerald, all of them, failed to appreciate. Mrs Budden agreed with Mother. There was no need to ask Edward’s advice. He had given his views in strong terms lasting over a solid period of two days at the first upheaval, and since managed to remain dormant for the ensuing quiet period while his suggestion proved itself to be necessary. The house was unanimously behind him; only Mrs Williams, who felt she was about to lose a friend, however remote, suffered at the possible consequences of Edward’s suggestion. Nelson, feeling the situation was akin to coffins, filled his notebook with more extensive scribbles gleefully.
‘She has paid her rent, so far,’ I reasoned unhappily, cringing before three pairs of accusing eyes. I was hopeful for reprieve, pinning my faith now in what seemed to be Harriet’s one remaining virtue. And after all if some other member of the household had tied rope across the stairs no one would have considered it an act of sheer lunacy – inconsiderate, maybe, but not lunacy. ‘I can’t really believe she is taking electric lightbulbs, though,’ I told Mrs Budden firmly, feeling that this was a pure fabrication from a Labour supporter to belittle the Conservative party; for my first impression that Harriet would constitute no thorn in the already bleeding wound of Labour’s imposing presence was after all proving to be a false judgment.
‘Well, it’s true,’ she defended her accusations cockily. ‘Wait and see for yourself.’ People grow like their dogs, but Mrs Budden grows like Mr Budden, I thought pityingly.
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ Mother put a kindly hand on the heaving shoulder. ‘Margo will have to settle the matter immediately, and put our minds at rest.’
‘Right!’ I stood up bravely, exhausted by their persistent nagging. ‘I’ll go and tackle the woman now.’ Secretly I hoped she was out as I marched upstairs, unravelling rope as I went, feeling more than ever before like having a swig from Edward’s bottle of homemade sustaining liquor, and not feeling at all like having it out. I knocked on Harriet’s door; a sinking sensation welled up in my stomach. I had a frightening premonition that I would end up as the landlady with the most ulcerated stomach in Bournemouth.
‘Anybody there?’ I called softly as though I was on a visit to the vestry. The silence that greeted my call was a moment of sheer relief. Thanking God for small mercies, in one of my moments of prayer I was apt to indulge in, I was just about to turn away when the door opened and the figure of Harriet was before me in an attitude of positive disapproval. She wore her usual grey garb, and a black shawl hung about her shoulders, a dismal suggestion of mourning. Were there Russian or Irish strains in that sallow face? The hair was her own, I decided, going from the hair to the face and back again.
‘Somebody, I’m not saying who, but somebody has stolen my plug,’ she announced loudly involving me in theft and flinging out her arms widely, her voice cracking with bitter emotion at the event.
‘What plug?’ The sickness had left my stomach and attacked my legs.
‘From my basin, of course – idiot,’ she replied, giving a sudden merry laugh, in which I found an irrepressible urge to join.
‘Perhaps Mother’s got it?’ I found the remark irresistibly on my lips.
‘That’s just what I thought,’ she agreed in a matter-of-fact way, a brooding look rising easily to her face again. ‘She’s making a collection of my things – it’s really too mean of her.’ Falling on her bed in an attitude of despair, Harriet began to sob bitterly, producing real tears, so that I could not fail to be impressed by this dramatic portrayal of distress. I wished I had held my tongue, completely nonplussed at this watery turn of events. I looked round for the knobkerrie, which was all that was needed to confirm my worst dread. The knobkerrie, I felt, would be a final symbol of insanity, but I could not see the badge of thuggery.
‘There, there,’ I said, closing the door on the curious rabble which I knew would be in the hall by now, gingerly treading the room patting her shoulder heartily. ‘No one has anything of yours, I assure you, and as you are the only one with a key to your room your things must be quite safe.’ I fidgeted awkwardly, trying to find the right words. ‘So you must refrain from accusing people.’ I was getting bolder for the noise of an inquisitive house on the alert had put me on my mettle. ‘Mother is most annoyed at your accusations. You won’t be so naughty again?’ I asked hopefully, examining the room about me curiously as if I had never seen it before. What other mysteries had she got hidden in this den of lavender water smells, to reveal at a later date?
‘Nobody cares about me,’ she lifted a grey and tearful face; a pathetic picture of self-pity which plunged me into a mood of sympathetic retreat.
I could not possibly give this sorrowful creature notice, I argued to myself, retiring quickly with promises of greater attention, falling over not the knobkerrie but an umbrella and a little sheepish at my cowardly reactions I shut the door behind me. Harriet had decidedly won the first battle.
Mrs Budden, with Mother, Edward and Nelson, met me at the last step, all agog for news, not catching the final conclusion of my visit. All the doors were now, curiously, ajar. ‘Well?’ they said sternly in unison.
‘Well what?’ I asked innocently.
‘
What have you done about that woman?’ Mother demanded, sticking to the point, and not in the mood to be trifled with. ‘Are we to continue to be slandered and accused of theft, the whole house living in a state of nervous tension – or if they are not now they very soon will be!’
‘I had a few straight words with her,’ I lied. ‘And I don’t think we shall have any more trouble, though I didn’t actually get around to giving her notice,’ I said vaguely, apologetically, avoiding more than three pairs of accusing eyes.
‘Had I known,’ Mother proclaimed royally, ‘that you were inviting me precisely at the same time that you were beginning to cater for lunatics, I would not have accepted your invitation with such alacrity, and …’ She paused, watching with disapproval the retreating ungainly figure of Mrs Budden hastening away attentively at the demanding yells of her child. ‘She really ought to do something to tidy herself up. She looks as though she is expecting another happy event, dressed like that,’ Mother observed, her mind wandering mercifully from the major problem of the moment.
‘She is,’ I said without thinking, so relieved to be off the topic of Harriet. ‘She told me so when she paid the rent,’ I faltered.
Mother was horrified. ‘It’s preposterous,’ she said. ‘But, of course, it’s that monster’s fault, there is no doubt about that.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘no doubt.’
‘No doubt at all,’ came a chorus.
‘Now is your chance, dear, to kill two birds with one stone,’ Mother egged me on. ‘Tackle her about her husband’s low behaviour, wandering about in a towel, and that sort of thing.’
‘And I understand,’ said Edward in a very low voice, ‘he has been indiscreet against the dustbins.’
‘Really! It’s not to be tolerated, you’ll have the health authorities around your neck before you know where you are, and what a disgrace that would be!’
‘That’s what Mrs Briggs is always saying,’ Nelson said.
Suddenly I felt inadequate to deal with the fresh events: Mrs Budden, Mrs Greenfield, or Mr Budden. ‘I’ll deal with everything tomorrow. Harriet has had her warning, the Buddens will get theirs; must be fair you know,’ I said with a sudden spurt of energy, caused by the mental vision of Nelson wheeling me to the ‘home’. A new day, a clean start; I was relieved to have found such a happy solution of appeasement.
Whatever Happened to Margo? Page 21
