All The Days of My Life

by Hilary Bailey

  Sometimes, before one of these occasions he was caught sleepwalking about his own house out of pure nerves. He could explain none of this to his parents who, in any case, apparently knew he did not like going there and often made excuses for him – but they could not always prevent the invitation or its acceptance for fear of upsetting their relationship with one of their few neighbours.

  So there we were that Christmas, two big young men of twenty or so, too old to enjoy the excitement as young children can, too young to enjoy it on their behalf, as parents will, so we accepted Isabel Allaun’s invitation to a drink on Christmas Eve with alacrity and, the older people in the house being too tired or preoccupied to go, we took their excuses with us over the three miles to Allaun Towers. And found no lights at the front of the house when we arrived. It was Sebastian who connected the flickering light from behind the house and the strengthening smell of burning with the famous Allaun bonfire – at first we wondered if perhaps the house was on fire.

  “That’s it,” he said. “The Fire. It used to be an old custom round here – tenants’ bonfire on Christmas Eve. Apparently the Allauns kept it up – they were what was known as parvenus at the time, I think. So they clung to the custom.” It was Sebastian’s mother, something of a local historian, who explained to me later that the Allaun family had arrived in the neighbourhood around the middle of the nineteenth century with a baronetcy which had something to do with Benjamin Disraeli and a lot of cash earned in Lancashire. Whereupon they joined the local gentry, more numerous in those days, and added to the house conservatories, bathrooms and waterclosets and other luxuries which had not been possible for the old and bankrupt family which had previously owned the house. The vigour they showed over all this apparently undermined the old, and evidently unsound, seventeenth-century foundations. And in reconstructing and repairing the foundations it seems that the two small but pretty towers which had originally stood at either end of the roof began to lurch and lean. In the interests of safety they had to come down. But the Allauns had bought Allaun Towers and they were not to be deprived of the house’s name at this stage. They had two tinier towers, only about six feet in height and in the same breadth, constructed on the roof. Now, according to Sebastian’s mother, the cold and damp were creeping in – the little rooms were abandoned and left empty. She told me all this rather wryly and I was left to draw my own snobbish conclusions, as I did. In the meanwhile, the old mediaeval tenants’ fire burned at the Allauns as it had in the days of their predecessors. As we knocked unavailingly at the front door we heard the village band strike up “Lily of Laguna.” Realizing no one could hear us we strolled round to the back where, on a rough bit of lawn about half an acre in size, we found a big bonfire, a lot of the local people and Lady Allaun, in a sheepskin coat, standing on the paved area which ran the length of the house, doling out punch from a huge bucket set on a tripod over a small flame. On the trestle table in front of her there was fruitcake and sandwiches. The light from the fire cast itself over the grass and into the small wood beyond it. It lit the faces of the people standing round. Children ran to and fro. The band played.

  Isabel Allaun greeted us and she ladled out some punch and handed us a glass apiece. She looked consciously jolly but gave the impression she would rather have been back in the house by her drawing-room fire. “I’m not sure where Tom or his father have disappeared to,” she told Sebastian. “If you find them could you ask them to come and give me some help? Happy Christmas, Mrs Twining. I hope you’re better after your accident,” she said to a stout woman standing at the trestle. “Now – let me pour you some of this – it’s just the thing for a cold night.”

  Meanwhile the housekeeper, Mrs Gates, and a man who must have been the gardener came labouring up with another tub of steaming punch.

  “Good Lord,” said Isabel Allaun. “I thought we’d had it all.”

  “Why don’t you let me take over,” Sebastian offered. “We’d love to help, wouldn’t we, Bert?”

  “I must say, I think some people have had enough,” observed the hostess. There was now some fox-trotting going on over by the band. The children were hopping and skipping in time. From down by the wood raucous laughter came out of the darkness.

  “All the more reason to hand over to these young men,” remarked Mrs Gates. “You go inside, Lady Allaun, and leave them to it. You look quite tired.” She seemed a kindly woman, very much the old kind of reliable upper servant.

  “Well, it has been a long day, Mrs Gates. If you don’t mind –” she said, turning to us. When we said we would like nothing better than to take charge she walked in through the French windows behind her and closed them. As she went there was an outcry as a man fell in the fire and was pulled out and put out.

  “Drunk,” Mrs Gates observed. “Serves the silly fellow right.”

  It was then that I left Sebastian, who claimed to be an old hand at the Allaun Fire, to ladle the punch and drifted over to the edges of the fire. And there, while the band played “Dance Little Lady,” somewhat out of time, I chatted aimlessly with the Hodges’ gamekeeper who had turned up for the event under an ancient right, no doubt, since the fire was meant for the tenants, servants and general fiefs of the Allaun estate. He assured me in the traditional manner that there was no game now or ever would be due to a poor breeding season, bad weather, poachers, foxes and hawks and was adding to his list of reasons why there was no point in bothering to go out with a gun the fact that the Allauns were careless managers of their estate when I looked across the fire and saw standing there one of the most beautiful girls I have seen in my life. She was Mary Waterhouse. Molly.

  It is hard to explain precisely why she made such a deep impression on me. It was not so much, perhaps, her actual features or colouring, but more the expression she wore, tranquil but gay, absorbed in her child’s pleasure at watching the fire. As she stared, partly at the flames and partly at the face of the child which she held, I was completely stunned. In retrospect I believe that one of the things I noted most about her was her good humour. She did not look sulky. She did not look self-absorbed – perhaps it was that I appreciated. That, and her beauty, for she was quite startling. She had the eyes and mouth of an angel in an Italian painting. She wore a plaid skirt, a jersey, and over this ordinary clothing a flashy white fur jacket. She caught my eye through the flames and smiled at me. Small wonder that I, an impressionable, inexperienced young man of only twenty, made my way over to her. I do not mean to say that I hoped for romance. Evidently she was a mother, which meant that she must be a married woman and in those days that put her completely out of bounds to conventional young men like myself.

  “Hullo,” I said, “I’m just going to get some more punch. Can I fetch you one?”

  Her voice, when it came, startled me. I had expected a country accent or the voice of someone of my own class. Molly was a cockney. “No thanks,” she said. “I’ve got to stay on me feet to look after the baby. I think I’ve had enough to drink.”

  But the child set up a clamour at the very mention of the word. “D’ink! D’ink!” she cried.

  When I understood what she was saying I asked, “Shall I get something for her? Some milk? Or some water?”

  “Well – if you don’t mind,” Molly said. “Though I think she’s trying to stay out of bed – she’s a rascal and Mrs Gates has been spoiling her rotten.”

  I brought back the water but by that time the baby had gone. “Mrs Gates has kidnapped her again,” she said. I asked her, jokingly, for a dance and she said, “Delighted.”

  We waltzed on the rough turf as the band, which was getting worse as the musicians drank more punch, blared the “Blue Danube” waltz out of time. “I’m sorry,” I said, as I stepped on her toe.

  “Not your fault,” she said. “It’s the drunks in the band. Oh – whoops – the conductor’s down.”

  The conductor had, indeed, measured his brass-buttoned uniform on the turf. The band silenced itself in ragged chords as the mu
sicians realized what had happened. “Time for the ‘Last Post,’” the girl said with a grin. “Wait a minute – there’s his deputy coming in.” And as two trombonists carried the old conductor away, a skinny man appeared in front of the band. Laying down his cornet he began to conduct. The waltz began again. We danced on.

  “I’ve been on better floors,” she told me. “You need Wellingtons for this ball.” Then she broke into a jive step, kept to it for a little while and came back into my arms again. I felt as if I were in love. My heart raced. I wanted the dance to go on and on. And at the same time I was disillusioned. This was not the blonde madonna I had seen from across the fire. She was a sharp, rather comical girl and, to put it plainly, she was common. She was married and a girl from the London streets but I wanted to go on dancing with her all night and into the next morning if I could. The band stopped. I thought I would hold her in conversation until it started again. I would try to find out more about her.

  It was hard to work out what she was doing at Allaun Towers. I concluded that she must be a relation of the housekeeper’s. Then the music began again and we danced a little more – or she jived, most of the time, while I stood still waiting for her. Then Lady Allaun, who must have found out about the collapse of the conductor, and must equally have been becoming more and more irritated by the ragged music, walked across the grass and talked to the new leader of the band, who nodded. They struck up “Silent Night” and followed it by “Good Christian Men Rejoice,” which was well beyond them at the state most of them had reached. Molly and I stood with some of the others watching them until they began to pack up their instruments. It was over. I thought that once she had stopped dancing she had become melancholy. That pretty face seemed sad in the growing darkness. Then she shivered and walked over to the dying fire. I followed her. “Do you feel like some more punch now?” I asked. “It’s getting colder.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  I went over to where Sebastian was still loyally ladling out the drink. He said, “Thanks for all your help, Bert. It was great fun running the canteen while you danced in the darkness with that pretty girl.” He handed me two cups and I took them over to Molly.

  Sebastian came up behind us and said, “Actually, Bert, that stuff’s stone cold and old Benson’s volunteered to pack everything up – why don’t we go inside and have a drink by the fire? Sling it on the grass. It’s only fit for weedkiller anyway.”

  By now the band was drifting away and only a few young couples stood about talking. As we walked back to the house I said, “This is Sebastian Hodges. I’m Herbert Precious – I should have mentioned my name before, I suppose.”

  “Same here,” she said. “I’m Mary Flanders. I’m staying here over Christmas. I lived here during the war when I was an evacuee.”

  “I remember you,” said Sebastian. “You hit me with your skipping rope – stood behind the toolshed and caught me as I came past.”

  “I don’t remember that,” said Molly. “I’m ever so sorry.”

  “You thought I was Tom – he was chasing you,” explained Sebastian.

  “That sounds more like it,” Molly said as we went in.

  We had our drinks in the long sitting room. The curtains were drawn. We all kept close to the fire.

  “I hope they’re staying off the lawn,” said Isabel, as we heard the retreat of some of the guests. “Benson has tantrums when he finds wheel marks and big scuffs on it. He burst in last year just before Christmas lunch and made me apologize.”

  “The trouble is,” said Sir Frederick, “that this wonderful old custom originated in the days when there were a dozen servants to prepare and clear up afterwards.”

  He looked very tired and stooped. Glancing at him as we talked earlier I had already realized that my hopes of a bit of shooting on the estate over Christmas were doomed. I could not imagine a jovial invitation being issued by this man. It looked, too, as if the Allauns were unprosperous. Indeed, Sebastian had told me as much. “This place,” he had said, as we stood in the garden looking at his house, “is kept up pretty much by some neat investments of the old man’s in Kenya and Rhodesia. But the Allauns haven’t got that, short of capital, that’s the problem, my father says. They should sell, says Dad, but they won’t.” He had added, “Sir Fred’s not what he was. He used to be a big, burly swine, like Henry VIII. Very hospitable and jolly, a fast evictor, as landlords go, hard rider, big spender, that sort of thing. I don’t remember his being any different from the way he is now, myself.”

  At any rate, whatever he had been, Sir Frederick was now obviously nervous and careworn. He looked like a beaten man and as his wife moved about the drawing room his eyes followed her, rather like a child’s.

  We talked country talk for a little while, although Molly was mostly silent, sitting in her chair, sipping a whisky and looking from face to face. Eventually she stood up and said, “I’ll be off, now. Excuse me but the baby gets up so early.”

  “I hope we’ll meet again before the holiday’s over,” I said.

  “Hope so,” she said. She sounded warm enough not to be positively rude and that was enough for me.

  As we walked quietly down the drive in the dark Sebastian said to me, “Quite taken with her, aren’t you? I don’t blame you. She’s very lovely. I wouldn’t try it on though. Tom did, apparently, and came to a sticky end. He told me what happened. He seems to have caught her in a cupboard, where she was sorting out some sheets – tried to play the wicked squire and got an ugly answer for his pains. From what he said it’s only luck he isn’t singing soprano in the village choir. Serves him right, of course. Quite honestly I was amazed he had the nerve to tell me his squalid anecdote.”

  “I’m amazed he had the nerve to do it,” I said indignantly. “I mean – for God’s sake –” I was full of chivalrous rage on Molly’s behalf.

  “Well, you never know how much encouragement she may have given him,” Sebastian said placidly. “But whether she did or whether she didn’t, Tom Allaun’s a very funny fellow. There are a lot of stories about him.”

  “What sort of stories?” I asked.

  “Stories not quite funny enough to repeat,” Sebastian told me. “Of the News of the World variety. Of course, you can’t believe everything you hear.” Then he fell silent, not wanting to say more.

  “I mean to say – she’s married,” I persisted.

  “Widowed,” Sebastian told me. “Or so Isabel says. There’s something funny about that, too.”

  “Poor girl,” I said. “What an oaf Tom Allaun must be.”

  “Plenty of ’em about,” Sebastian remarked philosophically. Then he said, “Sh!” and stopped in the dark lane. I stopped too.

  “Fox! Fox! Tally ho!” he cried and made a trumpeting noise. We chased the fox a hundred yards down the lane before it cut off through a hedge into a field. Then, still laughing, we trudged the last two miles back to the house. I still remember the fresh, crisp December air as we went through the wood, shining torches to show the path. The torchlight glittered over frosty twigs and leaves. We swung the lights round to catch the frost on the bare branches overhead. It was very still. I thought about the girl and, as we came out of the wood to cross the last field, the bells of Framlingham church began to chime in the distance.

  “Midnight. Happy Christmas,” said Sebastian as we began to climb up the field to the house.

  “Happy Christmas,” I said, still thinking of that lovely face in the firelight.

  Meanwhile, in her old room on the first floor Molly lay in the same bed in which she had slept as a child, staring through the dark windows at the sky. Far away, over the black hills, shone a sickle moon and stars, clear in the cold air. Inside the room she could hear Josephine’s light breathing in the cot, which stood beside her. There was no other sound. No wind stirred the trees. The sheep were silent in the fields. Not so much as an owl hooted in this Christmas Eve stillness. Once she thought she heard distant laughter; then that ceased and she lay awake in the
darkness, worrying, but somehow half-asleep, as if the deep calm of the countryside had caught her. It was as if the world had ceased to turn, though she knew that in London the traffic would still be moving, hooters would sound at midnight, tipsy men and women would be getting turned out of pubs. In Meakin Street there would be footsteps, a cry as someone bumped into a lamp post, the odd shout, a snatch of song – and Johnnie, at Jimmy Carr’s house, probably, would be, checking over the equipment behind drawn curtains while Jimmy’s wife produced bottles of beer and sandwiches, making an effort to be calm and thinking of her two children upstairs in bed asleep. She would know that on Christmas Day she would be alone and on Christmas night would get either a knock on the door, policemen asking where her husband had been all day, or footsteps on the stairs, Jimmy bursting in with a bag full of fivers and tenners, tipping them on the bed, saying, “Here you are, gel. Told you we could do it, didn’t I?” Faced with ten years to be spent virtually as a widow, bringing up the children while Jimmy was inside – or fur coats and new toys and jubilation all round. She’d be biting her lip, all right, Mrs Carr, thought Mary, while the gang downstairs made jokes, checked the pickaxes and wound the blades round with rags to stop the noise, counted the detonators, fuses, snapped the torches on and off – and Molly lay in the silence, thinking, thank God I’m out of it, and still wishing Johnnie was there with her. She missed him all the time and wished she had stayed in London, where she could be sad alone and did not have to pretend to be all right. But knew that would have driven her mad – and so she slept, as Christmas Day arrived.