The Two Mrs. Abbotts

by D. E. Stevenson

  “We must, darling,” Barbara told her. “And all the more if it isn’t necessary—just like a man changing for dinner when he’s in the jungle and there’s no other white person for miles. I don’t mean we always change for dinner, because now that Arthur is in the Home Guard we’ve given it up—and anyhow it’s only supper, but that is a reason, isn’t it?”

  “Oh definitely,” replied Jerry without turning a hair.

  “But Barbara,” began Sarah in bewildered tones.

  “And doctors, of course,” added Barbara, turning to her old friend with a brilliant smile.

  Sarah was stricken dumb.

  “I believe you’re right,” declared Jerry with a serious air. “I mean about keeping to proper mealtimes and all that. Markie and I have been getting awfully slack lately and feeding just when we felt inclined—at least that was the idea. As a matter of fact it doesn’t work out that way, because quite often we don’t feel inclined to feed at the same moment. For instance I come in ravenous after exercising the horses and find Markie in the middle of turning out the linen cupboard…You see,” continued Jerry, turning back to Mrs. Walker and smiling in a friendly fashion. “You see, I keep horses and dig the garden so all my work is out of doors.”

  “And hens,” Barbara reminded her.

  “And hens, of course,” agreed Jerry.

  “She used to run a riding school,” said Barbara.

  “But it all fell to bits when the war started,” said Jerry. “I’ve only got two horses left—and a pony, of course. The horses are old and not fit for hard work, you see.”

  Sarah saw. She said, “Do you live there by yourself?”

  “I’ve got Markie,” replied Jerry.

  “Miss Marks was Jerry’s governess,” explained Barbara. “She came to live with Jerry because Jerry couldn’t get any servants.”

  “Because Ganthorne is an Elizabethan house with all the Elizabethan drawbacks,” said Jerry.

  “Ghosts,” said Barbara nodding.

  “No electric light,” said Jerry.

  “It must be rather lonely for you,” said Sarah, who felt she ought to make some contribution to the conversation.

  Barbara and Jerry looked at each other and laughed.

  “You had better tell her the whole story,” Barbara said.

  “Yes,” agreed Jerry, wrinkling her brows. “Yes, I’d better. It must be awfully muddling for you. It was like this, you see. When the war started Sam joined up at once. He was in Uncle Arthur’s office before that, but he had always wanted to be a soldier.”

  “He’s a born soldier,” said Barbara with pride.

  “Yes,” agreed Jerry. “Yes, he is, really. That was why I didn’t try to keep him back…so Sam went off and Markie and I were left—not lamenting, exactly, because—well, because—and then I thought I would shut up Ganthorne Lodge and get a job. I was just on the point of signing up when suddenly a whole battalion of soldiers appeared, practically in the night.”

  “Like a crop of dragons’ teeth,” put in Barbara.

  “And there I was,” added Jerry with an air of finality.

  “I see,” said Sarah, but she said it without conviction, for why should the arrival of a battalion have prevented young Mrs. Abbott from taking a job?

  “It was because Ganthorne Lodge is the only house for miles and miles,” said Barbara. “That was why.”

  “I see,” said Sarah faintly.

  “Jerry runs a sort of canteen,” added Barbara.

  “No, Barbara, not really,” objected Jerry. “They have their own canteen. I just let them come in when they like, that’s all. They’re in huts, you see, and it isn’t very comfortable for them, especially if it’s wet. The men come into the kitchen and sit there and have the wireless, and the officers use the dining room. Markie and I live and move and have our being in the sitting room.”

  “How good of you!” Sarah said.

  “Not really,” replied Jerry. “I do it for Sam, you see. I mean they’re all soldiers—like Sam.”

  “Yes,” said Sarah.

  “Of course I couldn’t do it without Markie,” continued Jerry. “Markie looks after them. She’s a very special sort of person—isn’t she, Barbara? She’s terribly clever, you know, and yet she’s good at housekeeping, too, and does it well and likes doing it. There’s practically nothing Markie can’t do if she sets her mind to it. She’s good,” declared Jerry, nodding gravely. “Markie is good all through and I believe that’s why she’s so happy in spite of everything.”

  Sarah was about to inquire further regarding this paragon of all the virtues, and particularly to inquire what disabilities she suffered from to make her happiness a subject of surprise but she had no opportunity, for Jerry glanced at the clock and said she must fly and was gone in a twinkling.

  Chapter Four

  Shopping in Wandlebury

  Barbara Abbott and Sarah Walker were so delighted with each other and had so much to talk about that it required very little persuasion to induce Sarah to prolong her visit for a few days. She consulted her husband by telephone and received his assurance that he could manage quite well without her.

  “That’s lovely,” said Barbara. “Of course it will be dull for you because nothing happens anywhere just now but it will be a change of air. I think I shall ask one or two people to come to tea tomorrow.”

  “Not for me,” said Sarah hastily.

  “Oh no,” agreed Barbara smiling. “But I’ve been meaning to ask one or two people for ages and it will be so nice for them to meet someone new…and the bazaar is this afternoon, so—”

  “The bazaar!”

  “I shall have to go,” nodded Barbara. “It would be nice if you came. You needn’t buy anything of course and we shan’t stay long. It’s being opened by an author—one of Arthur’s authors—Janetta Walters is her name.”

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Sarah, who had read some of Janetta’s books and had very little use for them.

  “She’s a draw,” Barbara explained. “They were very lucky to get her.”

  “I suppose they were,” agreed Sarah. (Personally she would not have gone out of her way to see the author of Her Prince at Last—which was one of Janetta’s best known works—but she was aware that quite a number of people differed from her in that respect. Janetta’s name was well known; her portrait appeared in various weekly and monthly papers—Janetta at her desk, Janetta in her garden, Janetta in her drawing room surrounded with flowers.)

  The morning was bright and sunshiny and the two friends sallied forth to do the shopping, Barbara with a large basket on her arm.

  “I’m afraid this is dull for you,” she said as they emerged from the arched gateway, which had given the house its name, and proceeded toward the town.

  “Dear me, no,” replied Sarah. “I like seeing new places and it will be interesting to watch somebody else coping with food.”

  The town of Wandlebury consists mainly of a large square, and for some reason it seemed to Barbara today that she was seeing the square for the first time, seeing it with Sarah’s eyes…the wide space, paved with cobblestones, and the fountain in the middle; the pigeons wheeling about or strutting around the stone rim of the fountain with the sun shining on their iridescent plumage.

  “It’s fascinating!” exclaimed Sarah, pausing and looking around.

  Barbara was pleased. She, too, thought it was a fascinating place. She pointed out the county buildings that occupied the south side of the square (they had been designed by Adam and were simple and dignified). She pointed out the ancient Elizabethan hostelry, the Apollo and Boot, which occupied the western side. She pointed out the shops. As they crossed the open space Sarah continued to give vent to her admiration. “It’s so spacious,” she said. “It’s so quiet and peaceful, so dignified. John would go raving mad if he saw those Adam buildings!”
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  “He must come and see them,” declared Barbara, oblivious of the literal meaning of her invitation. She was—as a matter of fact—somewhat distrait, for she was most anxious to meet some of her neighbors and introduce them to Sarah. Sarah was so nice—it had always been her word to describe Sarah although she was aware that strictly speaking the word meant something different from what she meant when she used it.

  “There’s a young man smiling at you, Barbara,” said Sarah as they made their way toward the butcher’s.

  “Where?” asked Barbara. “Oh yes, that’s Lancreste Marvell. He’s on sick leave just now, his mother told me. He’s in the air force. It was because of Lancreste that the Marvells couldn’t put you up—though as a matter of fact I know they have a perfectly good spare room—but I’m very glad they couldn’t—or wouldn’t,” added Barbara, pressing her friend’s arm and hurrying on.

  Barbara did not want to talk to Lancreste Marvell for he had been a disappointment to her. When she first came to Wandlebury Lancreste was fifteen. He was tall and fair and beautiful and had the voice of an angel, but these endearing charms had hidden inward wickedness. Yes, he had been a disappointment. Now, of course, Lancreste was grown up; his hair had become mousy and he had cultivated a small moustache that reminded one just a little of Hitler…Barbara nodded to him, quite kindly, and dived into the butcher’s shop.

  “I’ve got two shillings and twopence,” said Barbara, buttonholing the butcher who was dismembering a sheep. “What could I have for that? And could I possibly have some liver because I’ve got a friend staying with me.”

  “You ’ad a piece of liver last week,” said the butcher sternly.

  “Oh no,” cried Barbara. “Honestly I didn’t. I haven’t had any liver for ages.”

  “Mrs. Abbott,” said the voice of Lancreste from behind her. “Mrs. Abbott, are you very busy? I mean could I—would you mind—I want to—to introduce a friend of mine.”

  Barbara was exceedingly busy. She was engaged upon the most important business of the day—and it was not often that one had the good fortune to get hold of Mr. Bones himself—but she relinquished Mr. Bones and smiled at Lancreste, reminding herself that Lancreste was a member of the R. A. F. and was therefore one of the few to whom the many owe so much (though to be sure he had been drafted into the R. A. F. only recently). “Yes, Lancreste,” said Barbara vaguely, for she was still wondering how far the two and twopence would go amongst eight people (counting the children) and whether she could persuade Mr. Bones to give her the liver so that they could have a steak and kidney pie. Strictly speaking it would be a steak and liver pie but for some reason that sounded rather nasty. “Yes, Lancreste, of course, but if your friend could wait—I could speak to him later, couldn’t I?”

  “It’s a girl,” said Lancreste.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” he continued, swallowing nervously. “I mean she’s waiting outside. She doesn’t know anyone at all and you’re always so kind.”

  “Yes, Lancreste,” said Barbara, her heart melting a little not only at the compliment but also at the sight of so much embarrassment and distress. “Yes, of course—but I am a little busy at the moment. Perhaps you could bring her to tea this afternoon. How would that do?”

  “It’s the bazaar,” he reminded her. “I’ve got to go to it. Mother has roped me in. I’ve got to look after Miss Walters and see she has tea and all that.”

  “That will be nice,” said Barbara.

  “It will be frightful,” replied Lancreste. “What am I to say to her? I don’t know how to talk to authors.”

  “Talk about her books, of course.”

  “But I haven’t read any of them!”

  “You must borrow one and read it this afternoon.”

  “I suppose I must,” said Lancreste miserably.

  “Why did they choose you,” began Barbara, for it seemed a strange choice. Mr. Marvell would have entertained Miss Walters very much better; he would have taken her in his stride.

  “You may well ask,” interrupted Lancreste. “That’s what I said to Mother—I said, ‘Why pick on me?’…and why on earth was I such a stooge as to say I would do it? I must have been mad.”

  “It will be all right,” said Barbara comfortingly.

  He sighed heavily and then continued in a different tone of voice, “So you see I can’t do anything about Pearl this afternoon…so if you could just come now and let me introduce Pearl…Oh, here she is!”

  Here she was, for she had grown tired of waiting outside. She stood at Barbara’s elbow, waiting to be introduced and Barbara was obliged to make the best of it. She had been willing to do what she could for Lancreste’s friend but when she saw Miss Pearl Besserton she had a feeling that very little could be done—even with the best will in the world—for Miss Besserton was not Barbara’s cup of tea. And Barbara was aware that, unless you can find some common ground upon which to meet, there is not much use meeting a person. It was not so much her appearance—though that was startling enough, for she looked as if she had stepped straight off the stage of a third-rate music hall without having taken the trouble to remove the grease paint—it was her personality that alienated Barbara’s sympathy. It’s no good at all, thought Barbara as she extended her hand and murmured a conventional greeting.

  “I’m okay,” replied Miss Besserton.

  “Pearl is staying in Wandlebury,” babbled Lancreste. “She’s taken rooms. It’s nice for me having her here when I’m on leave but she’s finding it rather dull.”

  “Dull’s the word,” said Miss Besserton.

  Barbara heard herself issuing a general invitation to come to tea any day that was convenient—she could do no less—and after a few minutes of somewhat strained conversation the two young people left the shop.

  “I find I can let you ’ave some liver,” said Mr. Bones, who had been waiting for the conversation to end. “It was Mrs. Dance ’oo ’ad the liver last week.”

  “Oh good!” said Barbara, beaming on him.

  “And you can ’ave your ration in steak.”

  “Splendid!” exclaimed Barbara. “It’s exactly what I wanted…and what about a little suet, Mr. Bones?”

  “If I can manage it, Mrs. Habbott,” said Mr. Bones grandly. “If I can manage it I will personally see that a few hounces of suet goes with your horder.”

  Barbara came out into the square and looked up and down, but there was no sign of Sarah. Sarah had vanished completely, and that was a pity because here was Mr. Marvell, who was one of the sights of Wandlebury! Barbara greeted him and asked him to tea tomorrow—and Mr. Marvell accepted. She met Archie Chevis-Cobbe (Jerry’s brother) and asked him, too, and Archie replied that tea parties were not in his line but he would look in about six and have a chat with Arthur. After that Barbara’s tea party grew rapidly, for she met “everybody,” and she wanted “everybody” to meet Sarah. What was the use of having a delightful guest and hiding her under a bushel! None at all, thought Barbara as she went on her way, gathering food, meeting people, explaining about Sarah, and scattering invitations right and left. Oddly enough everybody accepted and quite a number of people said might they bring someone else—a son or daughter on leave or a sister who had come down from London for a rest—and to all these requests Barbara replied, “Yes, of course. How nice!” for she was of a hospitable nature.

  Meanwhile Sarah had been prowling about the yard at the Apollo and Boot, trying hard to shut her eyes to the very modern streamlined Humber (which belonged to a visiting general and was being washed by his perspiring driver) and to conjure up in its place a coach and four resembling the illustration in John’s Pickwick Papers. She tried so hard and stood there for so long with her eyes closed that Mr. Grace came out of the bar and asked if she were feeling poorly and suggested a small brandy or a glass of port. Sarah refused politely and said that the sun was v
ery bright…and then she came out into the square and met Barbara face to face.

  “My dear!” cried Barbara, seizing her arm. “I thought you were lost!”

  Sarah explained what she had been doing—or trying to do—and added that it had not been much of a success, and Barbara, who was always ready to enter into the experiences of her friends with heart and soul, immediately entered into Sarah’s.

  “It’s the smell,” said Barbara with conviction. “The smell of petrol. Ghosts hate the smell of petrol. I’ve often thought that if you wanted to get rid of ghosts (to disinfect a house like they did in the papers the other day) you could do it quite easily by sprinkling petrol about. I wouldn’t, of course, because it would be such a waste—and anyhow we haven’t any petrol except what Arthur requires for his work—but you see what I mean.” Sarah saw.

  “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” continued Barbara. “I’ve been walking up and down and around and around and meeting everybody I knew—and I’ve asked them to tea.”

  “Oh, Barbara!”

  “I couldn’t help it,” explained Barbara apologetically. “It just happened. Have you noticed that if you think of giving a party you either find that nobody can come at all or else everybody can come and wants to bring somebody else? We aren’t at the end of it yet,” predicted Barbara. “You’ll see, Sarah. The telephone will ring and ring and the party will grow and grow.”

  “But what will you do?” asked Sarah in dismay. “How on earth are you going to feed them?”

  “We’ll make sandwiches,” said Barbara, happily. “There are still some raspberries in the garden…it doesn’t matter, really. People don’t expect much nowadays.”

  Chapter Five

  The Bazaar

  The town hall was decorated with flags and flowers and furnished with several large trestle tables upon which was displayed a curious collection of knickknacks and infants’ garments and fancy-work representing the labor of the Wandlebury Ladies’ Sewing Party for the last year. As a rule this bazaar was an enormous success and earned large checks that were dispatched to deserving objects with the Wandlebury ladies’ compliments but this year things had proved much more difficult, and Barbara—as she looked around the hall—decided that the check would not be as large as usual. There was no dearth of buyers—nor sellers either—the dearth was in the merchandise.