Miss Bunting

by Angela Thirkell

  Gradually the guests melted away. The Mothers’ Union, who had cleared and washed up the tea things some time ago, now pushed the big tables back into their places and began to remove the camouflage frames from their temporary place against the walls. Frank and Master Watson, who had helped with the washing up and broken the lid of the biggest tea-pot, were suddenly apparent.

  ‘Come along, Frank,’ said his mother, who sometimes felt that these words would be found on her heart when she died; which was at least better than the word ‘Don’t’, which would certainly have been found somewhere inside her if she had died a little earlier. ‘We’ll take Tom back to Mrs Watson. She said he could stay here as long as we did.’

  ‘I’ll run you all down,’ said Mr Adams, ‘I’ve got Packer outside.’

  Jane thanked him and said it was only a question of walking down the garden to the Watsons’ house.

  ‘So it is,’ said Mr Adams, who had not realized that the hall, which he had approached in Packer’s car from the back lane, was in the Watsons’ grounds. ‘I’ll walk down with you, Mrs Gresham, and then I can run you and your little boy home.’

  Jane, who wanted a little fresh air after standing so long in the stuffy tea-room, thanked him and said she and Frank would really rather walk, to which he replied that he would walk with them, and Packer could pick him up at Hallbury House. It was all rather a bore, but the Archaeological always was a boring day, thought Jane, and one might as well be civil. So they all went down the garden and delivered Master Watson at his back door and then, without entering the house, went round into the street. Here Frank Gresham became absorbed in the game, mysteriously compelling at almost any age, of walking on the pavement in such a manner that he never trod on the joining of two flags, which made his progress a matter of concentration.

  ‘Well, to return to the subject in hand,’ said Mr Adams, ‘I’d like to tell you what my pal said. He meets those ships and sees the repatriated men before anyone else can get hold of them and gets a lot of useful information about people who are missing.’

  Jane looked quickly at him.

  ‘Now, don’t you commence to worry, Mrs Gresham,’ said Mr Adams. ‘I told you it was uncertain news. It’s not good; it might be worse. There was a petty officer my pal was questioning and he mentioned a Commander Gresham. Now, there wouldn’t be another Commander Gresham, would there?’

  ‘I never heard of one,’ said Jane. ‘Commander Francis Gresham.’

  ‘That was the name,’ said Mr Adams, glancing at her and seeing no signs of discomposure. ‘Well, this petty officer said he had seen him somewhere in the jungle on an island out there —’

  Jane looked swiftly at him again.

  ‘— about two years ago,’ pursued Mr Adams. ‘He heard of him again from another man, about a year ago. He was down with fever then and pretty bad. Now, if I’ve done wrong, Mrs Gresham, I’ll apologize. It’s not much news, but it may be better than none.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Jane.

  ‘Well, I’ll be going on now,’ said Mr Adams, for the short walk to Hallbury House was over and Packer was sitting in his car outside the gate. Jane stopped and put out her hand.

  ‘Please don’t tell anyone,’ she said. ‘They’d only want to talk about it.’

  ‘I get you, Mrs Gresham,’ said Mr Adams. ‘And I’ve got that pal of mine on the job good and proper. Any news that we do get you will hear. And if Sam Adams can do anything for you, you’ve only got to say the word. My little Heth, she thinks the world of you, Mrs Gresham, and her and I see eye to eye in most things.’

  He then got into the car. Mr Packer put into his pocket the newspaper he had been reading and the car went away. Jane collected Frank, superintended his bath, ate her supper with her father and her son, answered a number of Frank’s questions, bore with more patience than her father the way Frank boasted about having looked down the well, sat with her father till about ten o’clock and then went to bed.

  ‘Delayed shock,’ she said aloud to her reflection, which looked at her from the mirror in much its usual way. ‘You’ll begin to think presently and then you’ll be sorry.’

  With which vindictive words she got into bed, read for a little, and was soon asleep.

  Between two and three in the morning the long heavy pulsation of aeroplanes passing over the country with drumming persistence gradually penetrated her sleep. As she woke, every nerve and every dark thought sprang to life, taut and strained. The hope she had forbidden herself to feel had come to life again; and with it all the terrors and agonies that she thought she had buried beyond reach of plummet. Francis; alive two years ago, ill with fever one year ago, still free. Had he died? Had he been taken prisoner? Did he still live on that island, hidden in the jungle? Could he escape? Was he as anxious and wretched for her as she was for him? So her thoughts battered her all through the dark and the dawning hours. She might have spoken of them to Robin, but Robin was not here, and it was not of him she thought, it was of Mr Adams. Hateful, hateful of him to disturb the peace she had made for herself, to crack the thin ice that lay over the deep lake of forgotten things. People who meant well, who tried to help, always made it worse. She would have liked to stand before him and rail like a fishwife, blaming his busybody interference and if possible hurting him a good deal.

  Now would begin again the waking every morning with a sense of a crime committed, a crime unknown, which passed but too quickly into remembrance of her loss, of her uncertainty, of her misery lest Francis should also be fearing for her in a bombed and burning England. Then she would pull herself together, go about her duties, play with Frank, forget. But she could not put the enemy off the scent. The pangs, the contradictory passions that ravaged her would not be stifled. And so it would go on and on. And now, to add to her self-tormenting, she thought she had not been polite enough, grateful enough to Mr Adams, who after all had tried, in his own way, to do what he could for her.

  The growing daylight brought her back to common sense, to a resolve to accept his well-meant kindness as he meant it. And after all, in these horrid days when every man’s hand had to keep his head more or less, and most of one’s friends were too deep in their own anxieties to do very much for one, it was in a way comforting to think of a man who, even if not one’s own sort, was ready to help and in a position to know and do a good deal. There was something about Mr Adams that made it impossible to dislike him, and he was a person upon whom, she felt certain, she could rely for anything that he promised.

  10

  Sunday spread its slightly depressing wings over all Barsetshire and the world outside. Most people went to church, ate too much wartime lunch, slept, played tennis, walked, wrote letters, and the day was over. By Monday the camouflage makers were at work again as if the Archaeological tea had never happened and Jane had herself well in hand again. Or if she had not, no one would have known it.

  The great event of this week was Anne Fielding’s seventeenth birthday, which was to be on Thursday. Her parents could not come down for the day itself and had told her to ask her own party to tea and they would have a birthday dinner together at the week-end.

  ‘It is rather difficult,’ said Anne to Miss Bunting, as they partook of a modest lunch together on Monday, ‘about asking who one likes, because one doesn’t exactly know. I mean I’d like just to ask Mrs Gresham and Robin and Dr Dale – and Heather,’ she added a little dubiously.

  Miss Bunting listened attentively, but made no comment.

  ‘Only then,’ said Anne, ‘there are people one does like, only one doesn’t want to ask them, like Mrs Watson and Mrs Merivale.’

  ‘Unless there is any very pressing reason, I would not ask people you do not wish to ask,’ said Miss Bunting.

  ‘But they have asked me,’ said Anne. ‘And then there’s Miss Holly. She is awfully nice, but I don’t want her for my birthday.’

  Miss Bunting gave it as her opinion that it was quite unnecessary for a young girl in Anne’s positi
on to consider the question of returning hospitality to everyone. Let Anne, she said, ask the people she wanted to ask and her mother would ask the people who ought to be asked.

  ‘But I am glad,’ she said, ‘that you think of the duties of hospitality. When you have a house of your own, you will probably have to ask people who do not always interest you. Meanwhile, do as your mother suggests and ask your own friends. Mrs Gresham and Dr Dale and his son will be pleasant guests and Heather Adams will enjoy the treat.’

  If Anne noticed this distinction, we could not say.

  ‘Oh, and there is one more person I would like to ask,’ said Anne.

  Miss Bunting asked who that might be.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’ said Anne.

  Miss Bunting, who really did not much mind whom Anne asked, as all her little circle at Hallbury were well known to her, said she couldn’t.

  ‘You of course,’ said Anne. ‘Do come, Miss Bunting.’

  Whether Miss Bunting had meant to come to the tea-party or not, we do not presume to state. Probably she had not thought very much about it. Her pupil’s pressing and heartfelt invitation took her quite by surprise and a slight colour appeared on her shrivelled cheeks as she accepted the invitation.

  The rest of Monday and whole of Tuesday and Wednesday were made rather difficult by Gradka, who in her enthusiasm for making a birthday cake such as her nation approved, was in and out of the garden, the drawing-room, the dining-room, and even Miss Bunting’s and Anne’s bedrooms, half a dozen times a day; sometimes to discuss the cake, and far too often to give them the latest wireless news about liberated Mixo-Lydia.

  On the great Thursday morning, Gradka overslept herself, which had never happened before, for Gradka as well as being an excellent cook was an early riser. So early in fact did she rise that Sir Robert and Lady Fielding when in residence often wished she didn’t. To the middle-aged the cheerful noise of brushing and sweeping, the crash of saucepans (for Gradka kept the kitchen door wide open till her employers came down), the sound of Mixo-Lydian folk-songs which appeared to have only one tune and that a poor one, the loud and contemptuous conversation with the daily milk, the Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday bread, and the post, are not welcome till they have drunk their tea or their coffee. And worse than all these had been the devilish roar and whine of the electric carpet-sweeper, which is far more like a siren than anyone who has lived near air-raid warnings can like. Basely sheltering herself behind her husband’s name, Lady Fielding had told Gradka that Sir Robert did not like the noise so early, and could Gradka do the carpet on the bedroom landing a little later.

  ‘If needful, not at oll,’ said Gradka. ‘The devil sends the dust. God wills it so.’

  Lady Fielding said she didn’t mean not at all in the least, but if it could be a little later, Sir Robert would like to have his sleep out.

  ‘In Mixo-Lydia we say six hours of sleep for a hero,’ said Gradka, ‘seven for the Sczarhzy, what you call housemistress which is the hero’s wife, either for the Sczarhzy-pskrb which is the housemistress parturiating, and nine for the Krzsyl, which is the old man, the dottard, as your Shakespeare says.’

  ‘Dotard,’ said Lady Fielding mechanically, passing over this reflection on Sir Robert, who was not quite sixty and remarkably strong and healthy.

  ‘So; I thank you,’ said Gradka. ‘Then will I not sweep the landing. Why sweep to-day what you must again sweep to-morrow, we say in Mixo-Lydia.’

  Lady Fielding said she didn’t quite mean that, but if Gradka could do it after half-past seven, or perhaps just brush the carpet by hand and not have the electric cleaner running —

  ‘Aha! it is the electric broom which you dislike,’ said Gradka, ‘I too. God! which noise, which tumult! In Mixo-Lydia we take oll our carpets into the street every day and beat them there while we gossip. So is everything clean. But here you nail your carpet to the floor and sweep it with this machine which shrieks like a damned-up soul in devils’ land. Ha! I would like to hear the jolly old Slavo-Lydians shriek when they are dead; ollso when they are alive too. Openly, I find quite detestworthy this sweeping-machine, Prodshka Fielding, and for two lydions, which a lydion is one sixtieth part of your farthing, I would crash it with the wood-axe. So in future from now onwards I shall sweep with my hands and the machine may stand in the cupboard to think on his sins.’

  On the great Thursday morning in question the house was quiet. Anne was peacefully sleeping, being still young enough to wake slowly and easily with no interior alarm clock to make her wake with a vaguely conscience-stricken jerk. Gradually a sound penetrated her consciousness. She woke up, listened, went to sleep again for an eternity, woke again after a third of a second, and heard the front-door bell, which was a real one, not electric, pealing determinedly. As it didn’t stop she dashed into a dressing-gown and slippers and ran down to see if anything was the matter, though without any real apprehension, for misfortune had not yet touched her with the dread of a bell, a letter, a telegram, which most of us have, and had even before the war made every sound a menace.

  As she ran downstairs the pealing stopped, then began again with renewed vigour. She undid the chain and bolts, which were more a token to burglars that they were not wanted than any real protection, for no side-door or window on the ground floor offered any real obstacle to anyone wishing to effect an entry. On the doorstep was Greta Tory, one of the Hallbury postwomen, niece of Admiral Palliser’s cook.

  ‘Many happy returns, miss,’ said Greta, who in her postman’s cap askew on dirty, over-permed hair, her jacket imperfectly restraining what our cliché-ridden neighbours the Gauls would have called her budding charms, her legs in rather large trousers from below which her bare feet in toeless sandals peeped in and out, presented a very unattractive sight; but a nice, good girl, who gave all the wages she didn’t spend on herself to her mother.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Greta,’ said Anne. ‘How did you know?’

  Greta said Auntie told her last night when she went round to supper with her at the old Admiral’s, because Mrs Gresham had said something to Auntie about having tea at Hall’s End for Miss Anne’s birthday.

  ‘Nice lot of letters for you,’ said Greta, handing a fat bundle to Anne. ‘Where’s that Gradka? Those foreigners ought to be made to work a bit, same as we. If she had to be round at the post office at half-past five to sort the letters same as I have, she’d be all the better for it.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Anne. ‘I was asleep and woke up when I heard you ring and no one answered it, so I came down. I say, Greta, would you like a cup of tea!’

  Greta said she wouldn’t mind if she did, so Anne shut the front door quietly, because of Miss Bunting, and the two girls went to the kitchen. As usual, Gradka had left everything in perfect order. The kitchen looked as if it had just been scrubbed, the little furnace for the hot water, well banked up, was quite hot and two kettles were sitting on it. Anne put one of them on the gas ring, got milk, sugar and crockery, and tea was soon made. Just as they were sitting down, there was a bang on the back door.

  ‘That’ll be Ernie Freeman,’ said Greta. ‘I passed him with the bread van in Little Gidding. He’s early to-day. ’Xpect he wants to get off for the pictures. They’re showing Inglorious Hampdens at the Barchester Odeon. Glamora Tudor’s in it.’

  ‘What is it about?’ said Anne, poised for flight to the back door.

  ‘Ow, I dunno,’ said Greta. ‘Something about the war, I s’pose. They say it’s ever so good and Glamora Tudor has a lovely song called “What has my past to do with love?” You must have heard it, miss.’

  But Anne had fled to the scullery, and unbolting the back door opened it to Ernie Freeman.

  ‘’Llo, Grad,’ said Ernie, who was looking into his basket of loaves. ‘On the warpath as per usual? Oh, I beg your pardon, miss, I thought it was that Grad. She ill or anything?’

  ‘I think she must have overslept,’ said Anne. ‘I don’t know what bread, but the same as usual, please.’
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br />   ‘You’d better leave an extra sandwich loaf, Ernie,’ said the voice of Greta Tory from the kitchen. ‘It’s the young lady’s birthday.’

  ‘I’m sorry I’m sure, miss,’ said Ernie Freeman. ‘If I’d known it was your birthday, I wouldn’t’ve knocked that loud, but I’m in a bit of a hurry on the round this morning.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ said Anne, as he put the bread on the scullery table. ‘You wouldn’t like a cup of tea, would you? Greta’s having one.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind, miss, I will,’ said Ernie, putting his basket on the floor. ‘It won’t hurt no one to wait.’

  Some very lively badinage then took place between Greta and Ernie, to which Anne listened, fascinated, till the milk came banging on the back door. Greta insisted on opening it and after a brief colloquy returned with the milk herself, who was a stout Land Girl from Northbridge. They all sat on or at the kitchen table, tea was drunk, Anne’s birthday toasted and the new film discussed.