The Return of Mr Campion
Page 16
For themselves, Moppet and Mo were no great loss but they were the only people known to the Robinsons who had not planned to leave London over Christmas. Mr Robinson was the child of a broken home; his parents had given him an expensive education and a little money, then fled from each other and from him to establish new families in distant countries. Mrs Robinsons widowed mother was off in Australia with Mrs Robinsons sister and it was from that land of fruits that there had arrived, already at the end of November, the stupendous hamper which the Robinsons planned to use as substance of the feast which now Moppet and Mo had spurned.
Mr Robinson slammed down the phone and, forgetting to replace its cover, spoke his thoughts about Moppet and Mo. Sebastian continued to howl. Mrs Robinson howled too and blamed all on her husband. Only the delights of reconciliation put them at last to sleep.
But on Christmas Eve morning the tragedy was inescapable. Not just one major tragedy but a whole series of tragedies. Mr Robinson had bought for himself a plum colored smoking-jacket with a black-quilted collar and frogging. It would set off his slim figure, his black curls and mustache, but he could not cut a dash without an audience. Mrs Robinson had hidden, in a box under their bed, the find of all finds, a genuine Victorian smoking-cap, plum-colored like Mr Robinsons jacket and like that jacket frogged, and she knew, but did not tell that she knew, that there was another package under the bed. She had not looked at it, that would be cheating, but it felt like the glass lily bases which had disappeared so recently from Levein's window. And Mrs Robinson had a new dress in stiff, check silk, her new best tabby which, no less than Mr Robinsons smoking-jacket, deserved and needed an admiring audience.
Now everything was spoiled. To comfort him Mrs Robinson reminded her husband that, "because you are so good at it," he was going to cook the goose. Mr Robinson flared; the goose had already been cooked, and by Mo, damn him! They might just as well stay in bed and forget all about Christmas.
Mrs Robinson burst into tears again. She had tried not to, but she was that sort of girl and that, after all, was why he loved her. She wailed that, this first Christmas after the end of rationing, she had set her heart on a truly Victorian Christmas.
Mr Robinson smacked his hand on the mantle and broke one of their prized Staffordshire greyhounds. "Damn Queen Victoria," he said, frightening even himself by lese-majeste so out-of-place in that household and, in that moment, divorce, dissolution, death and the end of the world were all imminent.
Suddenly Mrs Robinson had an idea. Like all of those Mugginess she was on occasion visited by a flash of pure genius. "Everybody in the house is going away for Christmas. Everybody, except the old woman on the top floor. She's a genuine Victorian. We can't have our party but we could ask her in sort of, have a rehearsal find out from her what a Victorian Christmas really was like, so that we get it dead right another time."
Mr Robinson was dubious. The old woman they saw sometimes crawling up the stone stairs to the porch above their kitchen was not notable for friendliness or charm. Had she not given to Mrs Robinson a pretty dusty answer when Mrs Robinson, seeing her so tired, had offered to carry her shopping-bags? No, they might as well throw Sebastian and the G.D. Tray into the Serpentine, go off to the Two Corporals, and get gloriously drunk. He did not go to the Serpentine. He did not go to the pub.
Instead he went to the Sunday market in Praed Street. Common decency demanded that he collect the large bunch of holly and the discreet sprigs of mistletoe which they had ordered.
When he returned there was the Victorian already installed and an alarming piece of stiff-backed bricabrac she seemed.
Miss Martindale was a small woman with crispy Grey hair. Her black skirt and twinset were not out of the ordinary but the gleam in her Grey eyes and the firmness of her small mouth announced that this was a woman to be reckoned with.
Mr Robinson was glad to see that his wife seemed content; for himself, he knew that Authority had arrived and that, whether he liked it or not, his Christmas was about to be organized for him, but Mr Robinson did not lack courage. He made one last stand for freedom.
"My wife," he said, "loves everything Victorian, but I don't think we want stuffiness and I don't think we want sentimentality."
To his relief Authority agreed and from then on she showed towards him more than a hint of flattering deference.
Miss Martindale admired the room and especially the maple-framed color-prints. Their Land seer was so good, she said, their Riviere so cosily indifferent. And she was no less definite about the Christmas arrangements. The strengths of the Victorians were three, she remarked, and she spoke in capitals as one who knew: Common Sense, Knowing One's Own Mind, and Thrift. Nothing, but nothing whatsoever, which was valuable, entertaining or nutritious must ever be wasted.
The Robinsons were surprised: they had not associated such a depressing set of virtues with the warmth and reckless abandon of the Christmas saturnalia, but they were captivated by her certainty. The modern world cannot resist the appeal of the expert and here it was to the ninth degree in the voice of Miss Martindale. They settled to obedience on all things.
They must hurry. Everything for a proper Victorian Christmas must be ready by 10 P.M for, of course, they must all go to the Midnight Service at St Nicholas in Charlotte Place. At St Nicholas, said Miss Martindale, thank goodness, they knew what they were doing. That was a true church for the Victorians, built in the last years of the Regency but recently redecorated in gold and exquisite blue. There would be no crib but there would be the Picture (again the capital!), a genuine Roger der Weyden. They must all sit as close to it as they could to admire Our Lady and the Babe under the Netherlands thatched-roof. And all the little angels, leaving behind their vapor trails in the cold, clear air, like tiny airplanes. Next, they must turn their eyes to the two great He-angels on either side of the huge, mahogany alcove and must listen to the blazingly triumphant music pouring, so it seemed, from their Bach trumpets.
The Robinsons were swept along by her certainty and enthusiasm but suddenly Mrs Robinson came to earth. There was in her voice a note of disappointment. "We can't go to church; there's Sebastian, you see."
For a moment even Miss Martindale was dashed but, like a true Victorian, she rose to the occasion. How silly of her to forget that their Emma was a washing-up machine, not so hard, perhaps, on the crockery as all those Emmas of the past but lacking some of their skill and uses. No matter, the Robinsons must go to church; she, Miss Martindale, would protect her bronchitis against the night air. She would sit here by the fire listening to the dog. "Christmas Eve, so, like all the animals, he'll talk his head off at midnight!"
Almost seduced by this surprising offer, still the Robinsons protested but Miss Martindale was gently insistent. They must go. It was essential, a part of the spell to raise the Good Spirits and without those Good Spirits it was quite impossible to celebrate anything, however marvelous.
So Mr and Mrs Robinson went to St Nicholas, saw the Picture, heard the trumpets and came back laughing, bright eyed and as exalted as Miss Martindale had confidently expected, through a night of cut-diamond stars.
They crept down the area-steps so as not to wake Sebastian and found Miss Martindale in a bright red dressing-gown, her hair in curlers, nodding by the gas-fire with the G.D. Tray sitting on her lap, and behind them the greyhounds and the marble clock. It was a scene from the Illustrated London News circa 1860.
Miss Martindale made to go home, shy, as Mr Robinson surmised, at being seen in curlers, but she gave in to his blandishment and stayed to show them how to make negus sherry, boiling water, lemon, sugar, nutmeg and "yes, half a glass of Three Star brandy from your medicine-cabinet."
It was a pleasant drink, warming and slightly mysterious. The Robinsons told Miss Martindale about church then asked how she had fared. Had Sebastian cried? Had the G.D. Tray spoken; if so, what had he said and was it polite?
No, the child hadn't stirred. Yes, the dog had spoken. Miss Martindale stroked his ro
und head affectionately. What did they expect? All the usual things, of course, about him being the Leader of the Pack. Did they not know: on Christmas Eve at midnight when they were allowed to speak, cows told sentimental stories, donkeys droned on and on about their patience, horses were too wise or too proud to speak at all, but dogs! Dogs came out with those sane, eternal preoccupations which filled their minds through all the year. "If you doubt it, just watch your dog any evening as he dreams by the fire."
They looked in on Sebastian in his cot, set beside him the carefully-wrapped presents he was still too young to appreciate, and then Miss Martindale left. But not before she had issued orders for the day: a long lie-in, a light breakfast, time for cooking and preparation, a glass of wine before the Feast. "And, of course," said Miss Martindale, her diction splendidly Victorian, "and, of course, we must hear the dear Queen."
There was no snow that Christmas morning but the sharp frost made a fine substitute. Everything went according to plan. It was one of Sebastian's good days and he played contentedly with the Victorian Folly his mother had found for him, a musical-box-on-a-stick, until he tired himself out and could be returned to his cot.
The sweet, cool voice of Majesty lent depth, tone and solidity to the proceedings. The first glasses of Portuguese Rose were raised to The Queen, God bless her and they were just about to sit to lunch when the day's first shadow crossed Mrs Robinsons face.
The table looked lovely. The Victorian brass-column lamp with its glass-lace shade made a centerpiece to crow about. But there were six dining-chairs and, even if one counted Sebastian, only four people!
Again Miss Martindale rose to meet crisis. There were always present at a Victorian Christmas dinner a few stuffy relatives. It was a matter of course, part of the ritual. "Why don't we stuff two?"
So they did, and in the process almost had hysterics. While Mr Robinson dished up the goose, made the rum sauce and with a pair of butter-patters banged the plum pudding into the proper Victorian football shape, Uncle and Aunt Dowsett were born.
Uncle Dowsett wore an old pair of Mr Robinsons flannel trousers and a Grey pullover, Aunt Dowsett Mrs Robinsons short dressing-gown. Their substance pillows and sofa cushions was inclined to be exuberant, their heads balloons stolen from the decorations were apt to come adrift with the slightest draught, but they were credible. They delighted Sebastian when he was returned to the party and soon they took on personalities very much their own.
Miss Martindale, who herself looked something of a sketch in her lace cap and frizzy curls, was just a little catty about them, if in a severely Victorian manner. "Sephronia never lets him speak," she confided to Mr Robinson in a stage-whisper. "But you'll see, before the evening is over he'll become a little inebriated, then he'll break out and embarrass us all with one of those vulgar songs of his."
"Dear lady," protested Mr Robinson, "at Christmas we must be charitable," and he filled Uncle Dowsett's glass.
It was not easy to think of anything decently vulgar for Uncle Dowsett but after the port Mr Robinson had an idea. He rummaged among their old records. There it was, and there was Uncle Dowsett, the record-player under his chair, singing Hallelujah, I'm a Bum in broad American. Not Victorian, true, but assuredly suited to Uncle Dowsett and sufficiently vulgar to make Mrs Robinson giggle.
Miss Martindale tried to look down her nose, then at last she laughed and tears came into her eyes.
It had been a glorious meal. The table was littered with wrappings, presents and dessert. Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the door.
What with the love-seat and six of them round the dining table the back legs of Miss Martindale's chair were almost on the doormat and she alone could get to the door.
The Robinsons and the Dowsetts heard her clear voice talking to someone outside. "Whatever next? On Christmas Day! Well, really I don't know, but you had better come in and speak to the Master." Then she slipped back in and there filed in after her three horrid, dirty little boys.
They edged round the table and stood in a row, clearly impressed by Mr Robinsons splendid presence, their eyes widening as they noticed his smoking-jacket and smoking-cap, then rolling as they noticed all the wonders of that room.
Mr Robinson, kindly and paternal, asked them their business and the middle-sized boy, obviously the brains of the gang, announced in a shrill voice, his Cockney only partly schooled by much listening to the BBC, that they were out selling seats for their Christmas play. He proved it by producing a handful of grubby tickets, typed in sticky purple.
He was close to making an immediate sale, but Mr Robinson was Something in the City and therefore in the habit of looking at what it was he was asked to buy. Even whilst he was feeling in his pocket for money, he read a ticket. His handsome face looked pale, his eyes narrowed and the widow's peak of his forehead came down to meet the bridge of his nose. "You beastly little crooks," he flared. "The performance was the night before last. You picked these tickets off the floor. Look, there's a footmarks on this one."
It was frightening and frightful, the spell of Christmas shattered, it seemed beyond repair, and a chill wind blew through the room. The Dowsetts looked vacuous, Mrs Robinson turned white, Sebastian wrinkled his nose and opened his mouth enormously to yell and the G.D. Tray set up a howl.
Miss Martindale swelled into Awful Authority. "Bad Spirits!" she exclaimed in a terrifying voice. "Goodness gracious! What have we let into the house?" She turned on the spokesman. "Tell me, you with the pudding still round your mouth. What parts did you three take in your Christmas play? The wicked angels, no doubt."
Two of the visitors crumpled there and then but Mastermind faced her, angel-eyed and steeped in sin. "No, Miss. We was the Three Kings. I was Melky-Haw. I give the gold."
"So!" Authority was suitably impressed. "That," she said to the Robinsons, "is a case of a different order. Misrepresentations by Small Fiends only, I think, but nonetheless demanding drastic modes of exorcism."
It took even Miss Martindale some time to persuade Mr Robinson to accept the logic of the subsequent business negotiations. It worked, she argued, on the same principle as correcting a skid by turning with it. He who humiliated by robbery could erase the shame only if he managed to reduce the robber to ridiculous nothing and for that the recipe was to force upon the brute, the greedy beast, an unsolicited gift.
All the time fascinated by her reasoning at last Mr Robinson agreed and the deal was settled: sevenpence for each of the brats. And between them one orange, a stick of cinnamon and one black olive.
The Spirit of Christmas returned to the room. The false Caspar and Balthasar trooped off, greatly relieved and still watery, but Melky-Haw was made of sterner stuff. He shepherded the other two Small Fiends into the area then back to Authority, gave her an angel's smile, and laid before her one of his seven pennies.
"A gift for the By-bee," he said.
Quick as lightening Miss Martindale snatched his grubby hand and emptied it of all his money. "You may keep the orange. Now be off with you or I shall kiss you under the mistletoe."
Before this dread threat the demon fled, banging the door behind him so hard that the draught blew off Sephronia's head.
Aunt Dowsett re-headed, Sebastian back in his cot and fast asleep, and the washing-up gurgling in Emma's mechanical belly, somewhat shamefacedly the Robinsons lifted the Royal Stuart traveling-rug from their brand new television-set. They were much relieved when Miss Martindale gave it as her firm opinion that television was nothing more than a latter day Magic Lantern if happily without the associated smell of scorching black Japan.
Miss Martindale loved-and-left. She climbed the stairs to her white-walled, uncluttered room, took off her lace, brushed out her curls, and put on her wedding-ring. She could never wear it on weekdays; those damned old fogies who ran the gallery where she had worked for years still preferred unmarried employees. Then she mixed herself a very dry Martini, lit a cigarette, and stretched out luxuriously on her severe divan.
She sighed, then laughed. Those Robinsons were rather darlings and she was particularly glad to have wiped out that most unfortunate snub she had given to Mrs Robinson earlier in the year. Face it, it was only natural for the girl to assume that a tired woman was too decrepit to carry a shopping basket. When you are twenty anyone who can give you thirty years appears to be as old as God. Fifty-five or one hundred and five. What is there in it?
She listened contentedly to Bach on the radio and again went over the day's celebrations.
It had been a blow missing St Nicholas, but it had been worth it. She thought again of Old Bill. No one had understood parties better than Old Bill but even he, who believed implicitly and at times exasperatingly in the essential gaiety of life, had never been forced to attempt the impossible. One just could not celebrate gloriously if alone. For the water to turn to wine there must be others present. It was a recipe for Christmas as precise and as practical as Mrs Beeton's instructions for preparing negus.
Mercifully, it was laid down for all time, and after. The Original Briefing: "Gang up, no less than two or three!"