Donkey Boy

by Henry Williamson

  “Goodness gracious, and I must go back to my iron on the gas ring! It will be red hot. Well, don’t hesitate to let me know, dear, if you need anything. Just rap on the back window with the bamboo cane I have leaned against the fence, it will save you having to come round to the front door.”

  Papa and Mamma living next door! Whatever would Dickie say? Oh, pray that Mrs. Bigge would not mention it to him, if she spoke to him over the fence while he was gardening! But poor Mamma! How awfully ungrateful she was, not wanting her own mother, who had felt for her as now she was feeling for her own little daughter. But it was not that she really did not want her. Mamma would understand.

  Mrs. Turney did understand. She arrived later in the day, knowing that her daughter would be feeling a little overcome, with two babies alone in the house. It was a happy inspiration that brought her over, she could see by the look in her darling’s face the moment she opened the front door.

  Sarah remained with Hetty until shortly before six, on her way to spend the night with her elder daughter Dorrie. She had told Hetty a little of her worry about Dorrie, for her marriage to Sidney Cakebread was not going very well. But with four little ones to be considered, perhaps things would come right; one must always hope for the best, and leave such matters in God’s hands; and Sidney Cakebread was a good man, in every sense of the word.

  Seeing how Mamma was worried, Hetty did not say anything about the idea that she might be coming to live with Papa next door.

  Chapter 5

  “OLD LOOS’AM”

  WITH A feeling of optimism Hetty next morning set out with Mrs. Bigge to pay a visit to the Domestic Servants Agency of “Old Loos’am” in the High Street. Hetty had every confidence in leaving her two babies in the care of Mrs. Feeney. She would only be gone for an hour and a half at the most, so there need be no worry about Mavis waking up hungry. Her next feeding time was two o’clock, and now it was only just after half past ten. She could allow herself two hours, with safety.

  Hetty carried the shopping basket she had bought at Hyères on the Riviera, ages and ages ago it seemed to her, more than four whole years had passed since that remote, faraway time. Ah well, she sighed thinking of the untrammelled joy of her girlhood, everyone had to grow up. Had she not her dear husband instead, and the dearest little son in the world, and the loveliest baby daughter with brown eyes, to whom Dickie had taken with such delight? It was strange how Sonny did not appear to have any interest in Mavis: could he be jealous? Dickie crooning over Mavis, she had observed, caused him to hide under the table. Dickie laughed, thinking it funny.

  Mrs. Bigge and Hetty walked down the asphalt pavement of Hillside Road. The petty cracks of the dark surface were already pierced by bindweed, now showing its pink flowers from the clay beneath. “Aren’t they pretty?” said Hetty. Mrs. Bigge agreed. She carried a shopping basket of wicker, from the basket-maker in Randiswell, who soon would be gone now: for a row of new, modern shops was to replace some of the older, weather-boarded cottages of the hamlet.

  Hardly had they turned the corner of Hillside Road into chestnut-lined Charlotte when a man, walking down from the hill, opened the gate of No. 11, after a quick counting of the houses downwards from the top of the road. He walked under the glass porch and rang the bell. Mrs. Feeney opened the door.

  “Why good morning Mr. Hugh! Mrs. Maddison has just gone out, only just this minute. I wonder you did not see her going down the road, sir. She is with Mrs. Bigge from next door. They’re going down to the High Street. You will overtake them quite easily, if you hurry, Mr. Hugh.”

  “How are you, Mrs. Feeney? Well, I hope? Two of them, you say? Perhaps I’d be in the way.”

  “No, Mr. Hugh, I’m sure they would be delighted to see you. Mrs. Bigge is very nice, you’d like her, sir.”

  “Right, I’ll vamoose. See you later!” And with a waggle of his straw boater Hugh Turney was gone.

  He walked quickly down the road, and at the first bend he saw them below, where Charlotte Road ended in Randiswell Lane. He walked faster, not wanting to lose sight of them. Hurrying round the corner, he came upon them unexpectedly. They had stopped on the other side of the road, and were looking at a small shop with second-hand furniture on the sidewalk outside it. They had not seen him.

  Acting on an idea, Hugh Turney walked back the way he had come. As soon as he was round the corner, he pulled something black from his pocket, which he fastened by two loops over his ears. It was a false beard.

  “Eh bien, mesdames!” he said, with the gesticulation of a stage Frenchman. “Alors! En avance! Maintenant pour la plume de ma tante!”

  Setting his boater at a slight angle, and perking up the waxed ends of his moustache, Hugh Turney advanced with a slightly mincing step, swinging a malacca cane with one hand, the elbow of the other arm raised, as though he were carrying a bouquet for a lady. In this guise he passed his sister and her companion on the other side of the road. Proceeding onwards he came to the Railway at the corner by the station, where, seeing that the two women were some distance behind, he entered through the ornamental glass-panelled doors and called for a brandy and seltzer. This he sipped while watching for them to pass beyond the window.

  The publican, a fat man in shirt-sleeves, standing behind the bar, suddenly uttered a loud belch of gas, which had generated from an excess of raw onion, white bread, and gorgonzola cheese.

  “Comment?” said Hugh.

  “Pardon,” said the publican. “I gets the wind, see.” He spoke in a feeble, sorry voice.

  “Vraiment,” replied Hugh, stroking his false beard. “Il y a beaucoup de mots vrai parlé de l’estomache.”

  “’Ow much?” asked the publican.

  “I remarked that many a true word is spoken from the chest,” replied Hugh, removing the beard to feel the point of his chin.

  “Oo d’yer fink you are? What’s the game, trying to be funny?” enquired the publican, in a rougher, rousing voice, as more wind broke from him.

  “I am Gonzalo the Wandering Violinist, and I am, alas, trying to be funny,” replied Hugh.

  “Well, you can ‘king well start doin’ some wanderin’ nah, you poncified little tich,” roared the publican, now in possession of his full self. He made as if to lift the mahogany flap in the bar counter, to chuck out the sauce-box.

  Bearded once again, Hugh swallowed the rest of his drink. “Bonjour, petit pomme de mon oeil!” he cried, and with a bow, backed out through the door, leaving the irate man staring at his retreating figure.

  Over the bridge Hugh caught up with the others, and slowed his pace to a saunter, keeping half a dozen yards behind them, swinging his cane and now walking with splayed feet, his jaw dropped in the guise of a simpleton. “Ah ha, my old Alma Mater!” he cried, gazing at the red-brick Public Baths, with the tower in front. “Ha ha, they’ll never get me in there any more. Scrub, scrub, scrub for a week, and they discovered my shirt. Scrub, scrub, scrub for another week, and they found my vest. Scrub, scrub, scrub until all the brushes were worn out—but they never found me!”

  “Don’t turn round, dear, but there is a strange man behind us,” whispered Mrs. Bigge; whereupon Hetty turned half round, to see for a moment what appeared to be a bearded Frenchman. “Cross the road, dear, he is following us,” whispered Mrs. Bigge, a little later.

  The Frenchman followed.

  When they came to the High Street, Mrs. Bigge said, “Look in the shop with me, dear, we can then give him the go by.”

  The strange man also stared in the shop, a little behind them. A tram rattled slowly past in the middle of the street, pulled by three dejected horses in line. “Ve Anglais zont a nation of har’nimal loveurs!” exclaimed the Frenchman.

  Mrs. Bigge nudged Hetty, “Don’t look at him, dear, he is either trying to scrape acquaintance, or else escaped from the Infirmary.” This was a local institution recently erected by the Metropolitan Asylums Board.

  They walked on down the High Street, relieved that the stranger was now
some way behind. Outside the Domestic Servants Agency, Mrs. Bigge said, “Now dear, you go in, and tell ‘Old Loos’am’ that you require a girl to train. Do not offer more than eight pounds a year, mind. That is the proper wage. If you agree to pay more, Miss Thoroughgood will only get it out of the girl in registration fees, as she calls it. I’m just going down to the butcher’s to buy my hubby some tripe, it’s his harp night. He likes tripe for supper with onions before the practice in the front room with Norah. Hullo, that fellow’s still hanging about. What do you suppose he’s after? There, I did not mean to alarm you, dear. A foreigner, by his appearance, and you know what foreigners are. Perhaps he’s come over for the Jubilee and lost his way. Ah, he’s found one way, I see,” for Hughie had turned into the Castle, for another b. and s.

  “Thank goodness he’s gone. I’ll come back for you here, dear, and mind now, don’t be put off by Miss Thoroughgood’s manner or appearance. She is a stuck-up old thing, she can’t forget the old days of Macassar Oil, she was Mr. Roland’s housekeeper. You know, Roland the Macassar Oil King, that’s why they call her ‘Old Loos’am’, he used to be the big man round here, fancied himself as the Squire.” And with a sudden “Here, give us a kiss!” Mrs. Bigge hugged Hetty, sang out “Tootle-oo,” and hurried away.

  Miss Thoroughgood’s Domestic Servant Agency was in one half of a shop, the other half being what Mrs. Feeney would call a snob’s shop, and Hetty a boot repairer’s. Miss Thoroughgood, when away from her office, liked to think of it as a bootmaker’s. Rows of misshapen foot-gear stood on a high bench before the leather-apron’d snob and his assistant. A continual knocking and banging accompanied Miss Thoroughgood’s particulars of her servant girls’ ages, religions, references, and experience.

  Hetty entered the shop, and after a brief glance at her, Miss Thoroughgood continued writing. In the glance she had observed that the caller was dressed in a clean but old-fashioned style, and judged her to be a governess in search of employment. Hetty was wearing her boater hat, with a blue serge shirt and short jacket with a rolled-back collar faced with white. Under the jacket was a plain white blouse topped by a high starched collar and a dark blue tie. A good class of young person, thought Miss Thoroughgood, and the thought induced her to say, in a regal tone of voice, as she continued writing, “I will not keep you a moment, young woman.”

  Banging of leather sounded through the partition. When it stopped Hetty heard the scratch of the steel pen upon the paper. Miss Thoroughgood appeared to be cogitating upon some matter, for her muttered words were audible. “Now let me see.” Miss Thoroughgood picked up some cards. “H’m. Yes. The Very Reverend H’m-H’m recommends—but she expects twenty-five pounds, and board wages when the family is out of Town. Too demanding. H’m. Major the Honourable H’m-h’m requires—does he now! Not if I know it, the old ruffian! I won’t keep you a moment, young woman. Hopeless, hopeless! What do they expect for eighteen pounds a year nowadays? Why, in Mr. Roland’s time, when Lord Dartmouth called to see him——”

  The banging was resumed.

  Miss Thoroughgood was a big woman, grey and puffy, looking as though her body was composed largely of white bread, which indeed was the case. The body, except for the hands, ears, and small areas of skin behind the neck, was covered by a façade. She wore a wig, her eyebrows were painted black and her lips red, her face was powdered, the cheekbones rouged, the rims of her eyelids were blackened with a mixture of lamp-carbon and gum arabic. Above all this, like a Martello tower in defence of the façade, was a hat that held Hetty’s gaze in fascination and wonder.

  As she was staring at it, Miss Thoroughgood appeared to read her thoughts; for the black-rimmed eyes looked up, while the rest of the ensemble remained immobile, as she said:

  “I shall not be very long. I have just to finish my letter to the wife of our mayor.”

  “Oh, I have plenty of time, thank you,” replied Hetty.

  Miss Thoroughgood smiled, unexpectedly revealing long yellow hare’s teeth. At once Hetty thought of the Mad Hatter in Tenniel’s illustrations to Alice in Wonderland. As for the hat, Hetty had never seen anything like it. It was of purple plaited straw, wreathed with two ostrich feathers, one pink and the other black. They were connected in front with a rosette bow of mauve silk, displaying a large paste buckle. From the back of the hat arose several willowy aigrettes. Various sprays of artificial flowers, including marigolds and forget-me-nots, were secured upon otherwise bare places of the plaited purple straw. Two humming birds were mounted, one on either flank, upon the superstructure, which was underpinned by ten-inch hat-pins of blued steel, with globular black china heads.

  With this armour of her soul Miss Thoroughgood faced the disintegrations of the new age and of her body.

  “Are you new to the district?” she said, her pen pausing.

  “Yes, I am in a way, though my——” Hetty was going to say ‘husband’, but Miss Thoroughgood cut her short, with a question.

  “Then you know the Quaggy brook?”

  “I don’t think I do,” replied Hetty, puzzled. What an extraordinary question!

  “Then you will never have known Loos’am as it was, and as it ought to be, young woman,” Miss Thoroughgood managed to say, through the tapping and thumping of the snobs. “Let me tell you that I myself have often picked wild flowers upon its banks, but where are those banks now? They are making an artificial canal-bed of concrete, and taking our brook under something they call an Arcade—what could be farther from Arcadia, indeed?”

  “Yes, I am afraid they are building everywhere today.”

  “And what buildings! Look at our High Street, look what is happening to it. Architectural splendours of the Caroline and Georgian periods are almost daily being torn down, and the rubbish of the modern jerry-builders being run up in their place. The tragedy is, no one seems to mind. Do you, for instance?”

  “I love old things and old places,” said Hetty.

  Miss Thoroughgood looked with new interest at the face before her, appraising candid brown eyes and child-like smile. A nice face, a fresh face.

  “I will take down your particulars in a moment,” she said. “That is, if you are not in a hurry?”

  “Oh no, Miss Thoroughgood.”

  “In the old days,” she went on, “when proper standards of conduct were imposed from above, let me tell you, there was not this frantic hurry——” She drummed her fingernails on her desk. “Really, what one has to put up with nowadays——” Her face seemed to sag; her other hand clutched her side; her eyes closed as in pain. Hetty wondered if she were ill.

  With a deep sigh Miss Thoroughgood recovered herself. “Where was I? Oh yes, of course, the Quaggy is being put underground, for a terrace of so-called modern shops, I hear, with wide plate-glass windows, for the display of goods, for one and all to gaze upon. In the old days, let me tell you, shops were shops, and people went into them to select their purchases. Nowadays we are, apparently, to be confronted with wide plate-glass windows, for all to gaze upon, and the lowest of the low to be tempted to covet goods which can never be theirs. Do you think that can be right?”

  Hetty began to see why the strange old-fashioned personage was nicknamed “Old Loos’am”. Miss Thoroughgood went on to say that though the Borough had changed for the worse, she prided herself that she did not change with it. Had she not for forty years been housekeeper to Mr. Alexander Roland, whose Macassar Oil had been used upon most of the Crowned Heads of Europe—and some in Africa, too, but of course they did not count? Had she not been an associate of Mr. Roland, who had been responsible for the innovation of an entirely new word in the English language? Did her listener know that an entirely new article of domestic use had come about because of Mr. Roland’s world-famous oil?”

  “Of course, the antimacassar!” exclaimed Hetty.

  “Exactly!” declared Miss Thoroughgood. “And now let me ask you what has taken the place of Macassar Oil? Bear’s Grease! Or rather, imitations of it which the public are exhorte
d in advertisements to refuse! That it can so easily be imitated shows the nature of the stuff that has, in the modern manner, imposed counterfeit and sham in place of what was once old-established and true!”

  Miss Thoroughgood went on to say that the large house over which she had once presided on the Rosenthal estate, with its cedars and peacocks and wide lawns, where Mr. Roland had lived like a gentleman upon its several acres of grounds and gardens, was now being covered by the boxes of jerry builders.

  Miss Thoroughgood did not say that she had been the housekeeper, nor did she voice her abiding disappointment that she had been left, in his will, only £10 for every year of service with her late employer. With part of the £420 she had bought a small house in the High street with a shop-front; and in this had opened an office wherein she considered that her status as gentlewoman, and her experience in managing a retinue of servants would be invaluable to those of her own class. But something had happened to her own class; it seemed to have vanished, and in its place was—what? People who thought themselves above their station, just as the rows of little semi-detached villas had replaced the dignified houses of the days that were no more. And what sort of people were they who came to her Agency for servants? The majority of them were nobodies, with their aspidistras in the front rooms.

  Through the banging of leather, the tapping of nail, the treadle of stitching machine, “Old Loos’am” concluded her attack upon the present.

  “I call this the Age of the Aspidistra. Why, in our palm court at Rosenthal, we had, let me tell you, six castor-oil ferns as tall as some of the new houses! In those days everyone who was anyone had a butler, footmen, and it goes without saying, a carriage and pair. Today modern Loos’am, which pronounces the place with an ‘ish’, just as licorice is nowadays pronounced lickorish, comes to my Agency for what? ‘A young, untrained girl’! That shows what pretentious nobodies are swarming over Loos’am today! Now then, to business. You require a post as a nursemaid to a superior family, am I right?”