The Blue Note

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Oh dear, whatever next!’

  As soon as she saw Major Saxby and his scythe, Miss Moncrieff turned at the doorway of the Sheds, intent on going back inside. Bobbie looked out over her shoulder, already oddly excited at just the idea of somehow making the garden simply look tidier. It was as if, ahead of herself and the Major, was a kind of gigantic spring cleaning.

  ‘Why not join us? You could cut and hack, you don’t have to chop and hew.’

  ‘Oh no, dear, I couldn’t really, I couldn’t. Gardening? No, dear. I do not have a garden in Ebury Street. No, dear. Not really. I wouldn’t know where to begin. I am not suitable, really I am not.’ Miss Moncrieff darted back inside the front door of the Sheds, pulling her cardigan even tighter around her large, low bosom. ‘Besides, I am just coming round the heel of my stocking, always such an intensity of excitement.’

  Bobbie shook her head, and frowned, and then bounced out towards the Major, the smoke from his Craven A already smelling somehow raffish and exciting on the cold spring air. Really, there was no dealing with poor Miss Moncrieff. She was so set in her ways. It was as if she had stepped in concrete and it had hardened around her lace-up chunky-heeled shoes and lisle stockings. Certainly there was no point in telling her that now the war was over no-one was going to wear stockings knitted on horrid little needles when they could dream of nylons. That despite the worst winter on record, most women would rather draw a line down the back of their bare legs, or rub them with gravy browning, than wear wool. It was just a fact. No point in telling her either that all the socks that the government had exhorted the women of Britain to knit for the men in the front lines had been warmly welcomed by the soldiery, and subsequently proved most useful to them – for cleaning their guns.

  ‘I shall bring the Major back for lunch,’ Bobbie called back to Miss Moncrieff. ‘Mrs Duddy is bringing in eggs and brown bread, freshly made, and a little butter and cheese from under the counter, she said. And there are some onions I found in a jar, from before the war, would you believe? From before the war!’

  ‘Oh well, if you insist.’

  Bobbie rolled her eyes as she turned from Miss Moncrieff’s aggrieved expression. Bobbie did not actually insist, as Miss Moncrieff put it, but she did think it was infinitely more exciting to be outside helping the Major to cut through the garden undergrowth, to be in the fresh air of the newly warm Sussex spring weather, rather than sitting listening to Mrs Dale’s Diary on the wireless, as she knew that Miss Moncrieff would be looking forward to doing. Mrs Dale seeming, to Bobbie anyway, to be such a very ordinary kind of woman, always intent on leading the sort of life that Bobbie could never imagine anyone wishing to lead, ever. But then compared to the life that Miss Moncrieff had led, it was probably all too exciting.

  Putting all thought of her guardian’s secretary from her mind Bobbie ran off to follow the Major, and his Craven A, towards the main garden, the main house, and more specifically the old Norman chapel which before the war had been used for housing sheep, or cows, or some such. She was so pleased that the Major had turned up after all that she called ‘Good morning’ several times, long before she caught up with him.

  They had arrived outside the main front door, and the Major was looking around him in amazement, as if he had landed in a nightmare, shaking his head, and pulling on his cigarette, when Bobbie realized, of a sudden, that it was really up to her to tell him what to do. She flushed with embarrassment at the thought, and looked about her as she did so, hoping that he would not notice. Perhaps he realized this for he turned back to her and said, ‘I have brought my tools, don’t worry. They’re all in the back of my car. I hardly use it, so the coupons won’t be a difficulty, not to begin with at any rate.’

  He opened the boot of his old pre-war Riley and peering inside Bobbie saw that he had in fact transported what must be the whole contents of his potting sheds to the front door of Baileys Court.

  ‘Bushwhackers, groovers, sickles and scythes, tampers, rammers and wimbles. Two in one for shears, fish oil to control scale, train oil against snail, turpentine against wasps, tobacco water against thrips, sulphur and carbolic. Enough to put a Nazi from the council off, let alone a red spider. Spades and forks all sharpened.’ He looked round at Bobbie. ‘Car’s been jacked up on bricks until three weeks ago. No point in taking it out, not with the Dog and Duck so near. Not with the snow and the shortages, and petrol rationing and bread rationing, and everything else you can name.’

  ‘You are kind, to bring so much––’

  ‘Not at all. I only just got back from Burma last year, you know. I was so weak I could not have lifted my fork to my face, let alone put my foot to a spade, and of course the worst of it was, my wife died, just before I arrived home. So. You see – I kept myself together somehow, by cleaning this lot. It kept me sane, for a while, as you may imagine. Built up my strength too.’

  Bobbie nodded, and there was an embarrassed silence as the Major’s words seemed to hang on the air and she tried to think of the best thing to say, not the immediate thing, but the best thing, for the fact was the Major was still quite obviously not strong, having the pallid air of a man let out of prison only recently, despite the clean Sussex sea air, and the constant wind.

  In the event there was nothing to say, nothing to add to his dreadful sense of loss, so she asked quietly, ‘Do I see a dog in the back of your car, Major Saxby?’

  It was his turn to nod, and opening the car door he let out a small pug dog who immediately sat down on his shoe and stared up at Bobbie, daring her, it seemed to her, to question his presence at Baileys Court.

  ‘I would like to be able to tell you that this is my wife’s dog – was my wife’s dog – Miss Murray, but I do not like to lie, so I have to tell you that he is not. My wife actually liked retrievers, as a matter of fact. No, this is my dog. A lady’s dog you might think, but you would be wrong. The rector who lived in the village had to go overseas, and so I inherited Boy here. And a better or more intelligent companion you would not find. As a matter of fact, as the rector told me, pugs have never really been ladies’ dogs. They are Chinese, and came in on trading boats in the seventeenth century. Of course they were much taller in those days, and not so squashed in the face. Hogarth, you know, now he had a pug called Trump. Devoted to it he was. And with good reason: solid, intelligent, with sound common sense, that is a pug. Big dome, if you notice, plenty of room for brains.’

  He lit another cigarette, as if overcome with the effort of such a long speech, as if it had taken a great deal of strength from him, after which the pug sneezed loudly.

  ‘Sorry, Boy. I know.’ He looked at Bobbie and shook his head. ‘He can’t stand my fags, you know. That’s his way of telling me. He’s no advertisement for cigarettes, I am afraid – sneezes every time I reach for the box.’

  ‘You know you’re going to have to be Head Gardener, don’t you?’ Bobbie asked him, at the same time leaning down to pat the still sneezing pug.

  ‘Very well.’ The Major cleared his throat again. ‘Best if we start with clearing, I’d say. In the driveway, to begin with, or what was the driveway. We must begin at the beginning …’

  ‘And go on until we stop,’ they both finished together.

  ‘I like a person who knows their Alice in Wonderland, don’t you? Makes you feel you can trust them, I always say.’

  There was no quarrelling with that, and so they both set to and for the rest of the morning the quiet of Baileys Court was broken only by the sound of the Major’s scythe and Bobbie’s fork, the pug snuffling and truffling around them, and the occasional sound of the Major lighting yet another cigarette followed by the inevitable sound of the pug sneezing.

  Equally inevitably Miss Moncrieff, to fit in with her planned day around her wireless and her knitting, had announced luncheon to be at midday ‘sharp’. Yards too early, Bobbie thought, but since the Major was grunting and mopping his forehead rather more than looked quite healthy, in the event midday turned out to be jus
t the right time to stop for lunch.

  Bobbie led the way back to the Sheds where she knew that Mrs Duddy would have managed to make up a small selection of things to eat, things that a farmer’s wife had readily available to those persons who could be guaranteed not to betray her to the authorities. Since Bobbie had discovered that there was still heat in the old black stove during the night, between them they had devised a plan to make thrifty use of it, for the slow baking of bread, and other small necessities.

  ‘What a place!’ The Major stared round the Sheds in admiration. ‘I say, Miss Murray, this place – it is superb, isn’t it?’

  The stone fireplace with the beam that crossed it, and the beamed ceiling above them, were dark and black with the smoke of centuries. The fireplace itself had a pair of old leather bellows hanging to the side of it, and the dogs and fire tongs were set to on its brick hearth. The walls of the sitting room were flush-beaded boards painted white to contrast with the blackened beams and fireplaces. The floor of the room, indeed the whole cottage, was uneven and made of brick, and the table upon which Bobbie now set out their communal picnic was made of country oak and rattled and wobbled as they both sat down to enjoy what there was.

  Either from shyness or embarrassment that she had not been part of their gardening team, before they had even begun their repast Miss Moncrieff had already retreated to the scullery where the sounds of the wireless playing could be heard as the Major unstopped a bottle of pre-war beer which Bobbie had found among many in the back of the stone larder to the side of the kitchen.

  As they ate and drank in companionable silence Bobbie wondered about the house, and eventually, her hunger assuaged, she asked the Major, ‘I know the house is very old, but this place, although it doesn’t look it, was all put together before the war, by the Duffs, wasn’t it? Before they sold it, after …’

  ‘My dear Miss Murray,’ the Major said, a little thickly, ‘you are quite right. This is quite new, as far as the main house is concerned. Mrs Duff, she had a really extraordinary attitude to Baileys Court. It astonished everyone. She brought everything in from somewhere else – from all over the country, like one of those film people, or that American press baron. Just imported everything. From everywhere. But you see, the strange thing is – never mind that people laughed at her at the time – the strange thing is, it works. I mean looking around us, it works, doesn’t it? We would never really know that the fireplace was from Yorkshire, and the doors from the other side of Worthing. They’re all in keeping. Which just goes to show something, wouldn’t you say?’

  Bobbie frowned. ‘That fakes can be genuine?’

  ‘There in one, Miss Murray. There in one. Fakes can be genuine.’ He smiled at her with sudden warmth. Then he lit another cigarette and Miss Moncrieff suddenly appeared at the kitchen door and beckoned to Bobbie.

  ‘A letter from London, dear. Mrs Harper. She is due to arrive here tomorrow.’

  They both stared at each other, and then as one they looked around at the bare kitchen, trying, in their minds, to imagine Mrs Harper, French-scented, nylon-legged, her elegant figure clothed in some new Dior coat and skirt, or its equal.

  ‘She can’t come here, not now, not until we’ve made it better, not until we’ve done something to the garden,’ Bobbie stated as if she owned the Sheds, and not her guardian. ‘I’ll ring her tonight, from the pub, and tell her. There is nowhere for her to stay. She has only ever seen Baileys Court in the snow before. She doesn’t realize about the jungle that has grown up around the place since she first saw it. I’ll telephone to her tonight and tell her.’

  Miss Moncrieff stared at Bobbie, suddenly impressed by her firm tone, although quite obviously still panic-stricken herself; and for once Bobbie could not blame her in the least. For the truth was that the poor woman’s face only reflected what Bobbie herself was feeling. The very idea of Mrs Harper staying at the Sheds was not only unimaginable, it was somehow appalling.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ she murmured to the obviously frightened Miss Moncrieff. ‘I’ll put her off.’

  She did not add ‘I hope’ but gave the poor woman an encouraging smile before returning to the garden.

  As dusk fell the Major gave Bobbie a lift into Baileys Green.

  ‘Come on, hop in, there’s a good egg. Only twenty minutes till opening time.’

  The sun was sinking, making a pink splash of waves and zigzags, and small dashes, such as some people put under their signatures, and with its final disappearance Bobbie climbed into the Major’s car.

  ‘Got a bit of a problem, have you not,’ the Major stated, as he drove carefully around each pothole, over the humps of weeds, and every other kind of obstacle that lay across their path in the middle of the drive, until they reached the broken gates that led to the little road which itself led to Baileys Green.

  ‘It’s my guardian, Mrs Harper. She wants to come down this weekend. But she would not like it here, not now, not as it is now. It would be better if she did not come, not quite yet.’

  ‘I know. The sort of woman who doesn’t understand upset and discomfort? I know. Well, the best thing is to say that there is measles or mumps in the village or something like that. Women who dislike discomfort are usually most fearful of disease and that sort of thing. Dear me, yes. I know. The mater was like that. No. Disease is your best bet.’

  The phone in the pub smelled strongly of cigarettes. As she asked to be put through to her guardian Bobbie imagined the very different type of phone that Beatrice would be putting to her ear, a new, elegant telephone with gold bits on it, possibly, or an old-fashioned one in two pieces – one of which would be held to Beatrice’s brilliantly red lips. Whatever the type, Bobbie knew that there was no doubt at all that her guardian would be standing not on a cracked linoleum floor in a stone-walled corridor that led to a cellar filled with very old and dusty bottles from before the war, but on a piece of all-wool carpet, and her voice would sound dulled by the heavy silk or velvet curtains that would be at the long, floor length windows that lit her first floor reception rooms, and that as she spoke to Bobbie she would be turning at the same time to wave to a servant, or beckon to a friend, or stub out one of her American cigarettes, or watch a smoke ring that she had blown from those reddened lips lazily curling in front of her face, as Bobbie had seen her do on her few fleeting visits to the sanatorium during the war.

  Such had been their relationship during the war that Beatrice Harper might, as far as Bobbie was concerned, have been a policeman checking on her, or an army official, or someone from one of the newly elected councils. Beatrice had been more than content to have telephone conversations with her self-adopted ward, Roberta Murray. To say that they had not been close would, Bobbie suddenly realized as she dialled Beatrice’s telephone number, be to understate the matter. And nor had she ever had any idea why this wealthy widow should take an interest in her.

  Of course she had been very busy with the WVS, as everyone during the war had been busy with something with initials – WRNS or WAAC or RAC or ARP. War children had grown up trying to muddle out which of their particular grown-ups had attached themselves to which set of initials, with only a very vague understanding as to what they did. They were just – busy. And not there. And that was how Beatrice was, or had been: very busy and not there. And quite honestly on the few occasions that Bobbie had met her, she had been really rather glad of her being busy, and not there.

  ‘Yes?’ Beatrice was always very brief on the phone.

  ‘Measles in the village,’ Bobbie said, consciously mimicking her guardian’s manner. ‘The charlady, everyone. Quite an outbreak.’

  Beatrice Harper sighed. ‘How dull.’

  ‘Yes, it is, quite.’

  ‘I shall have to cancel, of course. This ghastly winter, I suppose. Whatever people say about spring being here, I see no sign of it. It has brought these outbreaks, too awful. I can’t think when there has been a worse winter. Not even the Savoy can produce much in the way of dinner.’<
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  ‘It is spring down here, but still cold, of course.’

  ‘I will make sure that funds are sent to the village bank, as usual, for you, and of course Miss Moncrieff. How is the Bent Pin?’

  ‘Miss Moncrieff is very well …’

  ‘I must go, really I must, Roberta. Let me know how you are all coming along, and I will be down as soon as everything improves. Bless you. And don’t forget to tell the Bent Pin the funds are in the bank.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And remember, I want the garden worked on, as much as is possible with these stupid regulations, and I want you both to keep the house as clean and tidy as possible. Have the Bent Pin sweep up the dead leaves from the halls and that sort of thing.’

  Beatrice replaced the phone and Bobbie replaced hers too, neither of them bothering to say goodbye. Bobbie stared for a few seconds at the dirty walls of the corridor. For no reason that she could name she suddenly felt odd and sick, as if the sound of Beatrice’s voice had brought on some kind of car sickness. Or as if her cool tones reminded her of someone or something sad. Or perhaps it was just relief that she had actually managed to put her off.

  She returned to the private bar, and having been greeted with enthusiasm by the Major she sat on a tall stool and listened to him for some time talking of the good old days before the war, when the sun had shone every summer and ladies always wore lovely hats. Then, lighting her way with a torch, and feeling a great deal happier than she had when she first set out with him, she walked back to the Sheds to join Miss Moncrieff at supper.