Mennyms Alone Read online

  The thought sent her into a fever of activity that ended with her hurrying to her husband’s bedside. She was even slightly breathless when she sat down in her usual chair. A flustered Tulip was a rarity.

  “Magnus,” she said, “you must know that, in spite of all my doubts, I have done absolutely everything you have asked.”

  “Yes,” said Magnus. “I have no complaints.”

  “Then I would like you to do something very special for me.”

  “Yes?” said Magnus giving her a cautious look.

  From her knitting bag she produced a small package, well-wrapped in brown paper.

  “You remember, all those years ago, when we first came to life?”

  “Yes,” said Magnus.

  “Well, we were very glad of the cache of money we found in Aunt Kate’s workbox. It tided us over very well till we got into the way of creating our own wealth.”

  “True,” said Magnus, “and you made a brilliant job of it. Credit where credit’s due.”

  “All my fail-safes are to do with my firm belief that we shall never die. I want one more. Just in case we do die, and months from now or even years from now we come to life again, I want us to have another cache of money.”

  Magnus considered well what she was saying before he replied.

  “It won’t be as simple as that,” he said. “I don’t believe that we ever will be restored to life. When it is over, it is over. But, suppose something of the sort does happen, how do you know that the hidden money would be where you could find it? The Gladstones will take over. They would probably find any money left in the house. We did! And they may not leave us undisturbed in the doll-room. After the first of October, everything is beyond our control.”

  “They won’t destroy us,” said Tulip shrewdly. “We are much too well-made. So what I propose to do is to give you charge of this bundle of notes, and one or two other things, which will be hidden on your person.”

  “Without wishing to be indelicate,” said Magnus, “I feel sure that whoever looks after us will want to change our clothing from time to time. There will be nothing hidden.”

  “That,” said Tulip, “is why the money must be hidden on you. Well, not on you, but in you.”

  Magnus, as well he might, looked horrified. The look Tulip gave him in return was kind, but firm.

  “Your feet are neatly sewn,” she said, “but I could undo the stitching, remove some of the stuffing and wedge the bundle in place.”

  “What about your own feet?” said Magnus, outraged, “What about Joshua’s feet? Or Vinetta’s?”

  “They are not bulky enough. And I also think that it is a decided advantage that your feet are purple. It gives them an air of inviolable eccentricity.”

  “Thank you,” said Magnus drily. “It makes a change for my feet to be inoffensive.” He still remembered how squeamish Albert Pond had been about the foot that hung over the side of the bed. He still remembered how Tulip had insisted upon covering it with the quilt.

  “Besides,” said Tulip, “you are the head of the household. It is fitting that you should take charge of our hidden treasure.”

  After a few blank refusals, backed up with various expletives, Magnus finally, gave way. Tulip played her trump card. She threatened to leave home on the day of days if he would not agree to her terms.

  “After all I have done for you,” she said, “it is a very small thing to ask you to do for me – for us. If you won’t do it, I shall walk out of the front door on the first of October and stay away till your charade is over.”

  Magnus knew her well enough to suspect that she meant every word. And he could not rely upon the rest of the household to bundle her into the doll-room when the final hour drew nigh!

  “Very well. Have your way. Get on with it then,” he said, raising his foot and placing it on the arm of the chair as on an operating table.

  Tulip brought her workbox and deftly unpicked about six inches of stitching. She removed a wad of padding, shoved the bundle of money into the hole, and stitched the gap so perfectly that no one would have known it had been there.

  “Satisfied?” said Magnus letting his foot hang limp again.

  “Of course,” said Tulip. “I don’t know what all the fuss was about. It was simplicity itself.”

  “Grave goods,” Magnus muttered. “Idiotic grave goods.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The Thirtieth of September

  AS THE MONTH grew older the doomed dolls became more and more conscious of how slowly time could move. Minutes seemed to last for hours. The women, wondering whether their actions had any point at all, cleaned the house from top to bottom, laying fresh paper on shelves, sweeping into every neglected corner. Pilbeam, a secret writer, destroyed everything she had ever written. Soobie put all of his books in order. Miss Quigley folded dozens of baby clothes and packed them into boxes. Tulip filled black bags with things that needed to be thrown away before the strangers should come in and take over. She still did not believe the worst would happen but she was not averse to a good spring-clean: when it was all over the house would be more orderly than it had been for years!

  On Monday, the thirtieth of September, Sir Magnus called his last conference. Poopie and Wimpey were not invited. They had been told nothing of the coming crisis. That was Vinetta’s firm decision. Joshua was not present either. He was at work.

  “Magnus wants us all to be there,” Vinetta said. “He’ll be annoyed.”

  But Joshua already had on his outdoor clothes. He gave his wife a look of inexorable stubbornness. What he really thought about it all, he never said. He would not argue, or interfere with whatever any of the others wanted to do. But, but, but, but, he was not prepared to let it make one whit of difference to his own life.

  “It’s Tuesday tomorrow. I’ll be home all day and all night,” he said. “If Father wants me to come to Appleby’s room, I’ll come. But tonight I go to work.”

  The first thing Magnus said when they were ready to begin the conference was, “Where’s Joshua? He’s not still going to that warehouse, is he?”

  “Yes,” said Vinetta. “I have tried all ways to persuade him to hand in his notice, but he wouldn’t. I even tried to talk him into staying at home tonight, but to no avail. You know what he’s like, Magnus. He never argues. He just won’t listen.”

  Magnus gave Tulip a sour look. She was the sower of doubt. It was all her fault.

  “So,” he said, “he doesn’t believe it’s going to happen?”

  “Deep down,” said Vinetta, “I think he might. He has agreed to come to Appleby’s room tomorrow. He never says what he believes. He never has. You should know that.”

  “Have you not explained . . .” began Magnus, but then he changed his mind and did not bother to finish the sentence.

  “It won’t matter anyway,” said Vinetta. “He’ll be here tomorrow. That’s the main thing.”

  They went over again all the preparations they had made, all the eventualities they had covered.

  “What about the young ones?” said Magnus.

  “I’ll see to them tomorrow morning,” said Vinetta. “That will be soon enough. I am hoping they will remember nothing of your Christmas outburst. The less time they have to think about tomorrow, the better.”

  Miss Quigley, a little shyly, produced a square board for them to inspect. It was polished wood, walnut veneer, with a black scrolled border. In bold letters in the centre it had the words:

  DOLL-ROOM

  “I made this for the door,” she said. “It will make it clearer that the room is special, even before anyone enters.”

  Sir Magnus, who could be gracious on occasion, took the board in both hands and lay back to admire it.

  “A fine piece of work, Miss Quigley. Very fine. Joshua must fix it in place when he comes home tomorrow morning.”

  “I have been thinking too,” said Vinetta. “It might be a good idea to leave a note for the incoming people, explaining who we are. They are boun
d to be puzzled.”

  “Who are we?” said Magnus. “What are we?”

  Tulip recognised his words as an echo of something he had said long ago.

  “At best we are ourselves,” she said, “living and breathing and very special. At worst we are the finest rag dolls ever made.”

  “That is why we must leave a note, a sort of explanation. It need not be long,” said Vinetta. “We can leave it on Appleby’s dressing-table, propped up so that it will be found straightaway.”

  “And who would be the supposed writer of this note?” said Magnus.

  “Aunt Kate. Who else? It will have been left there by the mysterious Mennym family – a note found by them nearly half a century ago, a note kept and treasured as they have kept and treasured the dolls.”

  “So,” said Magnus, warming to the idea, “these Gladstones will never know that we are the Mennyms. They will think . . .”

  “They can think what they like,” said Vinetta. “They will never suspect the truth.”

  Pilbeam’s writing was thought most nearly to resemble Kate’s own hand. Notepaper was brought from the old desk in the breakfast-room, and a real fountain pen. Pilbeam sat ready to take down the words. She looked at her mother expectantly.

  “Write this,” said Vinetta. “The dolls in this room are my people . . .” She spoke slowly, pausing to allow her daughter to write clearly. “Work of my hands and of my heart . . .”

  Pilbeam wrote and waited for what would come next. Vinetta looked round at every face in the room, each one so dear to her.

  “Yes, Mum?” said Pilbeam, waiting for whatever instruction Vinetta meant to pass on to the newcomers. It was surprisingly short.

  In a lower voice, she said, “Next put – Please, love them. And sign it Kate Penshaw.”

  There was a silence. Then Magnus said gruffly, “It doesn’t say much.”

  “It says all it needs to say,” said Vinetta.

  The page was put into a large envelope. On the outside, Soobie wrote the words:

  * * *

  FOR THE NEXT OWNERS OF THIS HOUSE

  A LETTER PRESERVED FOR FORTY-SEVEN YEARS.

  KATE PENSHAW’S DYING WISH

  WHICH WE HAVE FAITHFULLY OBSERVED

  * * *

  The meeting ended and Soobie went out into the night. For hours he jogged round all the familiar places, the road that passed three churches, the park, and the moor where they had sledged in winter. He turned and came into town again, made his way along the streets where he had once sought for Appleby in the rain, went as far as the Theatre Royal, then turned down towards the river, crossed over the Dean Bridge and back over the Low Bridge, up Sandy Bank and across the marketplace. In the dead of night, the streets were almost empty. Soobie had the freedom of the city. He was filled with love for Castledean.

  I can’t imagine dying, he thought. I don’t think I would know how to die.

  CHAPTER 17

  Tuesday Morning

  THE POST BROUGHT the customary first-of-October letter from Cromarty, Varley and Thynne. Tulip took it straight to Magnus’s room, wakening her husband at an unusually early hour.

  “Well?” he said sharply. “What do you want?”

  Then he remembered what day it was. There was no point in being cross. Hours spent sleeping were not so precious if all the hours of the hereafter were to pass in slumber. He saw the letter in Tulip’s hand and knew at once what it was.

  “Throw it away,” he said. “Put it in with the rest of the rubbish.”

  “Nonsense,” said Tulip. “It is the declaration. You will have to sign it.”

  “Do you understand nothing? Signing it would be pointless. It would be worse than pointless. If we rushed it out to the solicitor today, what do you think would happen?”

  “We would be left untroubled for another year perhaps,” said Tulip.

  “We would be left neglected in an empty house. Dust would cover us and heaven knows what harm the place might come to. I love this house, Tulip. After my departure from this life, I want people to come in and care for it. I want them to love it too. And they will. They couldn’t help loving it.”

  “The Gladstones? After all you’ve said about them!” said Tulip bluntly.

  “Hobson’s choice,” said Magnus. “They’re better than nobody.”

  “You could be wrong about us dying,” said Tulip. “What if we are still alive tomorrow?”

  “I won’t be wrong,’ said Magnus, “but if it will make you any happier, let me say this – tomorrow will be just one day later than usual. Hold on to the declaration if you must. Tomorrow, if I am still alive, I shall be delighted to sign it, seal it and have it delivered.”

  The letter that accompanied the official form made no reference at all to birth certificates. Tulip noted that and was glad. Tomorrow it would be all over. One way . . . or another.

  When Joshua returned from work, he had his usual breakfast with Vinetta. She made him an omelette with make-believe eggs and served him toast and marmalade. He ate the phantom meal with relish and thanked Vinetta for it. She told him about the notice Hortensia had made and he agreed to fix it in place.

  “Now I am going to bed,” he said, after he had done the job and put his tools away. “That walk home wasn’t pleasant today. It’s very windy outside.”

  “You will remember about this evening,” said Vinetta anxiously.

  “I’ll be there,” said Joshua. “I have said I would. Don’t worry.”

  When Vinetta went to waken Poopie and Wimpey, she had her plans already laid. Poopie first. She went to his room where he was lying still asleep with one arm around the toy rabbit he called Paddy Black. Vinetta went to his wardrobe and from the very back she took out a pair of short grey trousers, a maroon school blazer and a little peaked cap. From a drawer she took a grey shirt and a maroon and grey striped tie.

  “Poopie,” she said. “Poopie. Wake up, dear. I want to talk to you.”

  Poopie sat up in bed, looking bewildered. He shook his head and then ran his fingers through his hair.

  “What d’you want?” he said crossly. “It’s too soon to get up.”

  “I want to explain to you about today,” said his mother. “It is a very special day.”

  “Is it?” said Poopie, trying to come fully awake.

  “Yes,” said Vinetta. “It is special because this evening we are all to go to Appleby’s room. Granpa has said we must. He believes that Aunt Kate is coming to pay us a visit. She will want to see us dressed just as we were when she left. So today I would like you to wear your school uniform and pretend that you are a real schoolboy. That should be a nice pretend. You won’t need to do any lessons, of course. We can pretend that it is a half-holiday. But those are the clothes you must wear.”

  “Yuk!” said Poopie. “I hate them. You know I do! I thought I’d finished with them years ago.”

  “Your grandfather particularly wants you to wear them,” said Vinetta firmly. “It is a dressing-up game. And it is just for one day. Just to please Granpa.”

  She did not explain that the clothes had to be worn not for Kate but for the incoming Gladstones. All of them would have to wear old-fashioned clothes to fit the period when their life first began. It would not have to be a rigid rule. The dolls, being cared for, would have had new clothing over the years. But to keep to an older style would seem more authentic. Pilbeam would be wearing her Fair Isle jumper, grey pleated skirt and white bobbysocks. Soobie had rebelled against being forced to wear anything other than his tracksuit. The ladies, it must be said, found no problem. Their style of dress had hardly changed in all their years.

  Wimpey was very easy. She looked old-fashioned anyway with her hair in bunches and her big bows of ribbon. Vinetta got out an old, blue-checked gingham dress with a big sash that tied at the back.

  “Oh, Mum!” said Wimpey. “It’s ages since I wore that dress!”

  “It’s just for today,” said Vinetta and was about to explain Granpa’s wishes w
hen Wimpey interrupted to say, “I love it. I always loved it. Why can’t I wear it every day?”

  Vinetta hugged her and said no more.

  Miss Quigley had work to do, her own special work.

  First of all she tipped all of her spare paints into a rubbish bag. Soobie saw her taking it onto the landing and said, “Can I help?”

  Miss Quigley smiled weakly and said, “These have to go out for the binmen. They’ll be coming tomorrow, so everything will be well out of the way before, well, before you know what.”

  “I’ll take the bag for you,” said Soobie. “Is there anything else I can help with?”

  Miss Quigley looked doubtful.

  “I don’t want to impose,” she said. “It isn’t fair . . .”

  “But?” said Soobie with a smile.

  “No, I must do it myself,” said Miss Quigley firmly. “You must have many other things to do.”

  “I have nothing to do,” said Soobie, “and if this is really to be our last day, I would like to spend it being of some use to somebody. I’ll put this bag outside and then return for orders.”

  In less than a minute he was back at Miss Quigley’s room, helping her to pack her canvases in protective paper and plastic bags.

  “Now what?” he said when they were all stacked up in the hall.

  “They are to be hidden in the back of the garden shed,” said Miss Quigley. “But please don’t trouble. I can do it myself.”

  The canvases were bulky and numerous; the corridor was two floors up. Soobie knew that Miss Quigley had the determination to carry out the task, even if it took her all day; but he could see further. He could see past her determination into her weariness, her soul quailing at the thought of all those trips up and down two flights of stairs, out through the back door and across the garden to the shed.