Mennyms Under Siege Page 6

  “Please Hortensia,” Vinetta protested, laying a hand on her friend’s arm, “you cannot mean it. You’ve been happy here. I’m sure something could be done to put things right.”

  “Say no more, Vinetta,” said Miss Quigley, drawing herself up stiff and straight. “I have given it a lot of thought. Nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”

  She went off to pack, leaving Vinetta to sit and consider what, if anything, she should do. There was no way she could deny her friend the right to return to her old home, a pretend that for forty years had seemed a reality.

  “If you could store my art things in the attic,” said Miss Quigley as she prepared to go, “I would be most obliged. I will try to think of some way to dispose of them later. Naturally you are welcome to keep any pictures you might like.”

  Vinetta said nothing. It was so distressing that it should come to this, and so embarrassing. Hortensia, as usual, misinterpreted the silence.

  “I wouldn’t ask,” she said, “but I won’t have room for much in Trevethick Street. It is very full already and I would hate to part with any of my father’s furniture.”

  Vinetta could not bring herself to say anything to contradict Hortensia’s pretend. Pretends in her eyes were sacred, no matter what. And there was another reason for holding back, one much less spiritual. If she goes, thought Vinetta, it might bring Magnus to his senses. He will be deprived of his supply line.

  But the going was sad, very sad. For Trevethick Street was one colossal pretend. Miss Quigley’s only other residence was, in truth, the hall cupboard. For forty years she had sat there on a cane-backed chair, coming once a fortnight or so on pretend visits to Brocklehurst Grove. She would sneak out through the kitchen, and come round from the back door to the front.

  The bell would ring.

  “I wonder who that can be,” Vinetta would say.

  “It’s Miss Quigley,” Soobie would reply. “You know perfectly well who it is.”

  Hortensia Quigley had come a long way since those days. She had become the perfect nanny to Baby Googles. She had become a very talented artist. For her to return permanently to Trevethick Street was nothing short of tragic.

  But there was no other way. No other possibility suggested itself. Hortensia packed her personal belongings into her weekend bag. She took one last look at her beautiful bedroom. Then she went downstairs and, for the first time in over three years, she opened the door to the long cupboard under the stairs in the hall and stepped inside.

  They will forget me till I come and visit, she thought. Out of sight is out of mind.

  10

  The Family at Number 9

  THE FRYERS WOULD have claimed to be happily married. But not in the normal, conventional way. Alec and Loretta spent as much time apart as they did together. They were totally faithful and scrupulously loyal; but they had their own lives to lead and they had never allowed marriage or parenthood to interfere with work. They enjoyed one another’s company when rest times or holidays brought them together, but when work drew them apart each was slightly relieved to go back to what they thought of as real life.

  Over the years, first Tristram and then Anthea had become keepers of the family home, parents to ambitious ‘children’ who went away but came back frequently for long and lovely holidays. Alec and Loretta needed this home-base. It was the reverse of normal, but for many years it had worked perfectly. Now things were about to change. Loretta had decided to retire, and Alec was working on a scheme for country living that might or might not work out. “At least we can give it a try,” he said. “Nothing venture, nothing win.”

  Anthea was kept informed, but her wishes were not consulted. They never had been. It was unnecessary. She was a very docile daughter, totally different from her public image. To outsiders she appeared to be a fighter, a strong supporter of deserving causes. It was, maybe, a sort of sublimation of the anger she felt deep down at being the one who stayed at home and did nothing of any importance. That, too, was about to change.

  The parents, like dutiful children, wrote letters home from time to time. Alec and Loretta had spent six weeks in residence at Number 9 from mid-February till the end of March. Anthea had introduced Bobby Barras, but her parents were too busy to take any real interest at the time. He would become an afterthought in a letter home, perhaps not even that. Loretta was in London now, working and practising for her final engagements. Alec had returned to Scotland to house-hunt in real earnest. The letters duly arrived.

  Dear Anthea, (wrote Loretta)

  I am writing this on a glorious morning sitting on a seat in Kensington Gardens. How anyone can accuse April of being a cruel month, for whatever symbolic reasons, I simply do not know. No matter how old I am, I will always feel young when April comes.

  But you, my dear, really are young. Now that the gallery’s closed, you seem to have so little to be young about. It worries me. Please don’t end up married to a widower and living in life’s suburbs. Find some real interest, darling, and cut loose. That is something you must do yourself. I cannot make you do it, and I cannot do it for you.

  Your father tells me that we will be moving to a moated grange somewhere in the West of Scotland. It will probably suit me. I can play the piano with all the windows open and not feel the least bit guilty! We shall all become country folk – if you’ll agree. I am not stupid, Anthea. Your life is your own. We do make plans that include you, but only because you never seem to make any plans for yourself. You must never feel trapped. Too much of my own childhood was spent in feeling trapped.

  Love,

  Mother

  Anthea put the letter into an orange folder with M for Mother scrawled on the flap. She always filed her parents’ missives very carefully. She did not fail to notice Mother’s oblique reference to Bobby. If she waited for her mother to approve of a suitor she would never marry anyone!

  The hint about the ‘moated grange’ made her turn with interest to her father’s latest letter.

  Dear Anthea, (he wrote)

  An Englishman’s home they say is his castle. Well, I’ve bought one. It’s not quite a castle and it isn’t in England. But I know you’ll love it. It is near the West Coast of Scotland with breathtaking views of the Irish Sea. The nearest village is over a mile away. We can become real people in a setting like that. It is truly wonderful.

  I shall be returning to Castledean on the twentieth of May, got to go across to Edinburgh first to do a bit more filming, not relishing it. We should have been finished a week ago. By the time I do return, all sorts of arrangements will have been made. We want to get back to the simple life as far as possible, but I couldn’t expect Connie or your mother to go primitive on the housework. The plumbing and the wiring need updating. So there’ll be a considerable amount of refurbishing to do. It’ll be a case of staying on at Brocklehurst till the lease runs out. Good job we didn’t buy it. By the autumn, our home, our real home, will be ready.

  I hope you’re looking forward to it, Petal. I’m sorry the gallery failed, but it was probably all for the best. Things usually do turn out for the best in the long run. You’ll enjoy the country. You can get involved in things down in the village, take an active interest, probably end up as a farmer’s wife, I shouldn’t wonder! Married into a Scottish clan!

  Take care of yourself,

  Love,

  Dad

  Anthea smiled as she folded the letter. They would be together at last, these wayward parents. They would become homemakers, belated nest-builders. And she, after all these years, could leave them to get on with it. It would be an enormous relief.

  She looked out of the window at the statue of Matthew James in all his civic splendour. She hoped there would be a Brocklehurst Grove in Huddersfield. She was looking forward to being a suburban housewife with children of her own. Bobby Barras was moving to a new job in September, a new job in a new town. And before the year was out, he and Anthea would be married. She had not told the parents yet. Time enough f
or that when they both came home.

  The Great Aunts at Number 1 knew all about their nephew’s plans. They were very old, well past the age of interfering or holding on. They looked forward to Bobby’s departure as the beginning for them of a quiet time and things being as they used to be. A housekeeper did most of the cooking and all the housework. A man about the house was an intrusion. A boy, if only at holiday times, was an irritation. A pity Bobby’s first wife died! A good job he’d found himself another before it was too late.

  The Mennyms would have been relieved if they had known of Anthea’s imminent departure. But they didn’t.

  11

  A Stormy Conference

  A CONFERENCE WAS held in Granpa’s room on Saturday evening. Miss Quigley was not there. She had not appeared for more than a week. Soobie had posted his grandfather’s letters at midnight in the letter-box by the old church. No parcels or packages had been sent out. No one had done any shopping.

  Vinetta had made the rounds of the family telling them of Miss Quigley’s resignation as soon as the cupboard door closed.

  “Miss Quigley has decided to go back to Trevethick Street,” she said. “I can’t say I blame her. We have treated her very badly. And I have been just as bad as the rest of you.”

  “We haven’t enjoyed the past few weeks either, you know,” said Tulip. “In a war, we must all pull our weight.”

  “It isn’t a war,” Vinetta protested. “It’s supposed to be some sort of siege. If you ask me, it’s nothing but a ghastly pretend and we are fools for going along with it.”

  Tulip pursed her lips and gave her daughter-in-law a magisterial look of disapproval.

  “It’s not,” she said, “but even if it were, what right have you to undermine it? One rule for us, another for you and Hortensia Quigley!”

  Magnus was even more unpleasant in his criticism.

  “You encouraged her,” he said. “She hasn’t the guts to make a decision on her own. Don’t think I can’t see through you, Vinetta. You think we’ll go back to the game of Russian roulette just because we’ve nobody who can go outdoors in safety.”

  “Russian roulette?”

  “That’s what it would be,” said Magnus. “You go to the Market – and, bang, you’re dead. Or if it’s not you it will be Pilbeam or Appleby. You’ll get careless. You’ll be seen and cornered. Then it’ll be no good crying over spilt milk, madam. It’s a dangerous world out there.”

  “So what do we do?” said Vinetta, keeping her voice level.

  “We do without,” said Magnus. “No shopping means no purchases. Soobie can take care of the post.”

  The other members of the family had little to say and looked embarrassed or uncomfortable. It rather depended upon how finely tuned their consciences were.

  Vinetta’s next ploy was to disappear for hours on end into the nursery to look after Baby Googles. The washing and ironing were totally neglected. Buttons that came off were not sewn on. Quarrels were not resolved by motherly intervention. Vinetta, behind the nursery door, could hear voices raised and shouts for her to come and give judgment as to who was right and who was wrong. She ignored them. Someone had to look after Googles. The poor baby no longer had a nanny.

  This would have been a war indeed – a war of attrition – if it had not been for the matches. It would have taken much longer for the conference to be called – if it had not been for the matches . . .

  The gas-fires in the Mennym household were well-constructed but rather aged. They were regularly cared for, and cleaned twice a year by Joshua. Being so old, each one had to be lit with a match. It was on Friday morning that Tulip discovered that there was only one box of matches left.

  “Someone will have to go shopping,” she said. “Decisions will have to be made. We shall have to have a conference. We can’t go on like this.”

  So the next day the family gathered in Granpa’s room and waited for wisdom.

  Magnus looked directly at Vinetta, knowing that she was his chief opponent. He couldn’t count the number of times she had argued discreetly and privately that the ‘siege’ should be considered over and that life should be allowed to return to normal.

  “Since Miss Quigley’s desertion,” said Magnus, “we have lost our facility for dealing with the mundane matters of the outside world.”

  “Miss Quigley is not a facility,” said Vinetta.

  “I choose my words as carefully as I can, daughter-in-law, but if my level of erudition is not as high as yours, you must bear with me,” said Sir Magnus loftily. “To rephrase, in very plain English, we need somebody to go to the shops. Miss Quigley is still the safest person to undertake that task in these troubled times.”

  “Miss Quigley is not available. She is gone. She does not live here anymore,” said Vinetta. “We have driven her away.”

  Magnus gave Vinetta a very benign, conciliatory look.

  “We did overwork Miss Quigley,” he agreed. “Some thoughtless members of this family took advantage of her, used her to run unnecessary errands, even within the house itself. That was disgraceful. Some members of this family began to treat her like a skivvy. It must never happen again.”

  Vinetta steeled herself for what was coming. But the wily old man addressed Tulip instead.

  “You must tell Miss Quigley to come out of the hall cupboard and shop for the necessities. Necessities only.”

  Vinetta was furious. Magnus had broken every rule in the book.

  “How dare you!” she said. “How dare you! Miss Quigley, Hortensia, my friend Hortensia, has gone home to Trevethick Street. She is entitled to go home to Trevethick Street. She came here as a nanny. If and when she returns, it will be as nanny to my baby. Nothing else.”

  “She’s not your puppet,” said Magnus, voice raised, black eyes bulging.

  “And she’s certainly not yours!”

  Appleby and Pilbeam regarded their mother with a new admiration. They felt like joining in but they had the sense to say nothing. Vinetta was doing very well on her own. The younger twins gaped. Soobie was a silent, satisfied spectator. Joshua, on the stiff-backed seat by the door, looked as if he would like to escape. As for Tulip, she was visibly horrified. No one ever spoke to Sir Magnus Mennym in that tone of voice.

  It took some moments for Magnus to recover. Then he said lamely, “Someone has to do the shopping. It doesn’t do itself.”

  “I shall do the shopping,” said Vinetta. “Pilbeam will do the shopping. Appleby will do the shopping. Everyone will go back to normal. The siege, if it ever was a siege, is over.”

  Sir Magnus glowered.

  “Then Miss Quigley won’t be needed – and she won’t be welcome either,” he said. “She can stay in Trevethick Street and see how she likes it after the years she’s spent with us.”

  Everyone in the room looked at Vinetta, wondering what she would say next.

  She drew a deep breath.

  “You are a spiteful old man,” she said. “I won’t allow it. If I can persuade Hortensia to return to her post as Googles’s nanny, then I shall most certainly do so. If she will agree to come back, I shall consider myself very fortunate.”

  Tulip looked about to argue, but she felt her powers diminishing as Vinetta’s grew. She could not risk a conflict in such a public forum. Defeat would be too humiliating.

  Sir Magnus’s flowing moustache drooped. His face took on an exaggerated look of weariness.

  “Do whatever you like,” he said. “But go now. I am an old man. I need my rest. I have warned you of the perils. I can do no more.”

  Pilbeam and Appleby looked at one another. No one else in the room knew about their visit to Sounds Easy. No one must ever know. Pilbeam felt guilty. Appleby, with much more to hide, felt not so much guilty as worried about the possibility of being found out.

  That evening the sisters went cautiously to the late-night supermarket and bought some matches. The next day they celebrated the return of freedom with a trip to the quayside market. As they walke
d home up Sandy Bank towards the High Street, the sun was shining and it felt good to be out on a fine April morning.

  “We’ll, just have to be careful,” said Pilbeam, thinking of their guilty secret, “more careful than ever.”

  It was not easy for Pilbeam. She wanted to warn the others, but she feared that to give such a warning might return them to a state of siege. People who are totally honest find compromise very painful. Had she known the full story of Appleby’s letters to Tony Barras she would have been horrified.

  12

  The Invitation

  IT WAS THE May Day Bank Holiday. Appleby and Pilbeam decided to go for a walk. The weather was bright but breezy. They were strolling along the High Street, expecting nothing in particular to happen, when Pilbeam suddenly said, “Don’t look now, but there’s that boy from Number 1. I think he might have spotted us. Hurry. Hurry this way.”

  They were beside the Theatre Royal. Appleby found herself being pulled quite roughly round the corner into Kyd Street. She shook herself free. Turning her head to look behind her, she saw Tony watching them and she waved him away frantically. Pilbeam, leading on into the alley, did not suspect a thing. It was enough that the boy from Sounds Easy seemed to be noticing them.

  “Walk more quickly,” she said, “and don’t look back.”

  When they were well away from danger, up one street and down another, they slowed down and Pilbeam said, “That was a near thing. We really will have to be more careful.”

  “I thought he’d gone back to school,” said Appleby, then stopped in terror as she realised that she might have given herself away.

  “What do you mean?” said Pilbeam. “Where did you get that bit of information?”

  Appleby, struggling to recover, and managing as usual, said, “The day I spoke to him in the shop, he said he was home for the holidays and would be returning to school in Harrogate or somewhere after Easter.”