Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 17

In the case of meat, and the general luxuries of wartime, there were some advantages for the rich, but on the whole, I think, there were infinitely more advantages for the working cla.s.s, because nearly everyone had a cousin or a friend, or a daughter's husband, or someone useful who was either in a dairy, a grocery, or something of that kind. It didn't apply to butchers, as far as I could see, but grocers were certainly a great family a.s.set. n.o.body that I came across at that time ever seemed to keep to the rations. They drew their rations, but they then drew an extra pound of b.u.t.ter and an extra pot of jam, and so on, without any feeling of behaving dishonestly. It was a family perk. Naturally Bob would look after his family and his family's family first. So Mrs Woods was always offering us extra t.i.tbits of this and that.

The serving of the first joint of meat was a great occasion. I cannot think it was particularly good meat or tender, but I was young, my teeth were strong, and it was the most delicious thing I had had for a long time. Archie, of course, was surprised at my greed. 'Not a very interesting joint,' he said.

'Interesting?' I said. 'It's the most interesting thing I have seen for three years.'

What I may call serious cooking was done for us by Mrs Woods. Lighter meals, supper dishes, were prepared by me. I had attended cookery cla.s.ses, like most girls, but they are not particularly useful to you, when you come down to it. Everyday practice is what counts. I had made batches of jam pies, or toad-in-the-hole, or etceteras of various kinds, but these were not what were really needed now. There were National Kitchens in most quarters of London, and these were useful. You called there and got things ready cooked in a container. They were quite well cookednot very interesting ingredients, but they filled up the gaps. There were also National Soup Squares with which we started our meals. These were described by Archie as 'sand and gravel soup', recalling the skit by Stephen Leac.o.c.k on a Russian short story'Yog took sand and stones and beat it to make a cake.' Soup squares were rather like that. Occasionally I made one of my specialities, such as a very elaborate souffle. I didn't realise at first that Archie suffered badly with nervous dyspepsia. There were many evenings when he came home and was unable to eat anything at all, which rather discouraged me if I had prepared a cheese souffle, or something at which I fancied myself.

Everyone has their own ideas of what they like to eat when they feel ill, and Archie's, to my mind, were extraordinary. After lying groaning on his bed for some time, he would suddenly say: 'I think I'd like some treacle or golden syrup. Could you make me something with that?' I obliged as best I could.

I started a course of book-keeping and shorthand to occupy my days. As everyone knows by now, thanks to those interminable articles in Sunday papers, newly married wives are usually lonely. What surprises me is that newly married wives should ever expect not to be. Husbands work; they are out all day; and a woman, when she marries, usually transfers herself to an entirely different environment. She has to start life again, to make new contacts and new friends, find new occupations. I had had friends in London before the war, but by now all were scattered. Nan Watts (now Pollock) was living in London, but I felt rather diffident about approaching her. This sounds silly, and indeed it was was silly, but one cannot pretend that differences in income do not separate people. It is not a question of sn.o.bbishness or social position, it is whether you can afford to follow the pursuits that your friends are following. If they have a large income and you have a small one, things become embarra.s.sing. silly, but one cannot pretend that differences in income do not separate people. It is not a question of sn.o.bbishness or social position, it is whether you can afford to follow the pursuits that your friends are following. If they have a large income and you have a small one, things become embarra.s.sing.

I was was slightly lonely. I missed the hospital and my friends there and the daily goings on, and I missed my home surroundings, but I realised that this was unavoidable. Companionship is not a thing that one needs every dayit is a thing that grows upon one, and sometimes becomes as destroying as ivy growing round you. I enjoyed learning shorthand and book-keeping. I was humiliated by the ease with which little girls of fourteen and fifteen progressed in shorthand; at book-keeping, however, I could hold my own, and it was fun. slightly lonely. I missed the hospital and my friends there and the daily goings on, and I missed my home surroundings, but I realised that this was unavoidable. Companionship is not a thing that one needs every dayit is a thing that grows upon one, and sometimes becomes as destroying as ivy growing round you. I enjoyed learning shorthand and book-keeping. I was humiliated by the ease with which little girls of fourteen and fifteen progressed in shorthand; at book-keeping, however, I could hold my own, and it was fun.

One day at the business school where I took my courses the teacher stopped the lesson, went out of the room and returned, saying 'Everything ended for today. The War is over!'

It seemed unbelievable. There had been no real sign of this being likely to happennothing to lead you to believe that it would be over for another six months or a year. The position in France never seemed to change. One won a few yards of territory or lost it.

I went out in the streets quite dazed. There I came upon one of the most curious sights I had ever seenindeed I still remember it, almost, I think with a sense of fear. Everywhere there were women dancing in the street. English women are not given to dancing in public: it is a reaction more suitable to Paris and the French. But there they were, laughing, shouting, shuffling, leaping even, in a sort of wild orgy of pleasure: an almost brutal enjoyment. It was frightening. One felt that if there had been any Germans around the women would have advanced upon them and torn them to pieces. Some of them I suppose were drunk, but all of them looked it. They reeled, lurched and shouted. I got home to find Archie was already home from his Air Ministry.

'Well, that's that', he said, in his usual calm and unemotional fashion.

'Did you think it would happen so soon?' I asked.

'Oh well, rumours have been going aroundwe were told not to say anything. And now,' he said, 'we'll have to decide what to do next.' 'What do you mean, do next?'

'I think the best thing to do will be to leave the Air Force.' 'You really mean to leave the Air Force?' I was dumbfounded.

'No future in it. You must see that. There can't be any future in it.

No promotion for years.'

'What will you do?'

'I'd like to go into the City. I've always wanted to go into the City. There are one or two opportunities going.'

I always had an enormous admiration for Archie's practical outlook. He accepted everything without surprise, and calmly put his brain, which was a good one, to work on the next problem.

At the moment, Armistice or no Armistice, life went on as before. Archie went every day to the Air Ministry. The wonderful Bartlett, alas, got himself demobbed very quickly. I suppose the dukes and earls were pulling strings to regain his services. Instead, we had a rather terrible creature called Verrall. I think he did his best, but he was inefficient, quite untrained, and the amount of dirt, grease and smears on the silver, plates, knives and forks, was beyong anything I had seen before. I was really thankful when he, too, got his demobilisation papers.

Archie got some leave and we went to Torquay. It was while I was there that I went down with what I thought at first was a terrific attack of tummy sickness and general misery. However, it was something quite different. It was the first sign that I was going to have a baby.

I was thrilled. My ideas of having a baby had been that they were things that were practically automatic. After each of Archie's leaves I had been deeply disappointed to find that no signs of a baby appeared. This time I had not even expected it. I went to consult a doctorour old Dr Powell had retired, so I had to choose a new one. I didn't think I would choose any of the doctors whom I had worked with in the hospitalI felt I knew rather too much about them and their methods. Instead I went to a cheery doctor who rejoiced in the somewhat sinister name of Stabb.

He had a very pretty wife, with whom my brother Monty had been deeply in love since the age of nine. 'I have called my rabbit,' he said then, 'after Gertrude Huntly, because I think she is the most beautiful lady I have ever seen'. Gertrude Huntly, afterwards Stabb, was nice enough to show herself deeply impressed, and to thank him for this honour accorded her.

Dr Stabb told me that I seemed a healthy girl, and nothing should go wrong, and that was that. No further fuss was made. I cannot help being rather pleased that in my day there were none of those ante-natal clinics in which you are pulled about every month or two. Personally, I think we were much better off without them. All Dr Stabb suggested was that I should go to him or to a doctor in London about a couple of months before the baby was due, just to see that everything was the right way up. He said I might go on being sick in the morning, but after three months that it would disappear. There, I regret to say, he was wrong. My morning sickness never disappeared. It was not only a morning ailment. I was sick four or five times every day, and it made life in London quite embarra.s.sing. To have to skip off a bus when you had perhaps only just got on it, and be violently sick in the gutter, is humiliating for a young woman. Still, it had to be put up with. Fortunately n.o.body thought in those days of giving you things like Thalidomide. They just accepted the fact that some people were sicker than others having a baby. Mrs Woods, as usual omniscient on all subjects to do with birth and death, said, 'Ah well, Dearie, I'd say myself that you are going to have a girl. Sickness means girls. Boys you go dizzy and faint. It's better to be sick.'

Of course I did not think it was better to be sick. I thought to swoon away would be more interesting. Archie, who had never liked illnessand was apt to sheer off if people were ill, saying: 'I think you'll do better without me bothering you'was on this occasion most unexpectedly kind. He thought of all sorts of things to cheer me up. I remember he bought a lobster, at that time an excessively expensive luxury, and placed it in my bed to surprise me. I can still remember coming in and seeing the lobster with its head and whiskers lying on my pillow. I laughed like anything. We had a splendid meal with it. I lost it soon afterwards, but at any rate I had had had the pleasure of eating it. He was also n.o.ble enough to make me Benger's Food, which had been recommended by Mrs Woods as more likely to 'keep down' than other things. I remember Archie's hurt face when he had made me some Benger's, and allowed it to go cold because I could not drink it hot. I had had it, and had said it was very nice'No lumps in it tonight, and you've made it beautifully'then half an hour later there was the usual tragedy. the pleasure of eating it. He was also n.o.ble enough to make me Benger's Food, which had been recommended by Mrs Woods as more likely to 'keep down' than other things. I remember Archie's hurt face when he had made me some Benger's, and allowed it to go cold because I could not drink it hot. I had had it, and had said it was very nice'No lumps in it tonight, and you've made it beautifully'then half an hour later there was the usual tragedy.

'Well, look here,' said Archie, in an injured manner. 'What's the good good of my making you these things? I mean, you might just as well not take them at all.' of my making you these things? I mean, you might just as well not take them at all.'

It seemed to me, in my ignorance, that so much vomiting would have a bad effect on our coming childthat it would be starved. This, however, was far from the case. Although I continued to be sick up to the day of the birth, I had a strapping eight-and-a-half-pound daughter, and I myself, though never seeming to retain any nourishment at all, had put on rather than lost weight. The whole thing was like a nine-month ocean voyage to which you never got acclimatised. When Rosalind was born, and I found a doctor and a nurse leaning over me, the doctor saying, 'Well, you've got a daughter all right,' and the nurse, more gushing, 'Oh, what a lovely little daughter!' I responded with the important announcement: 'I don't feel sick any more. How wonderful!'

Archie and I had had great arguments the preceding month about names, and about which s.e.x we wanted. Archie was very definite that he must have a daughter.

'I'm not going to have a boy,' he said, 'because I can see I should be jealous of it. I'd be jealous of your paying attention to it.'

'But I should pay just as much attention to a girl.'

'No, it wouldn't be the same thing.'

We argued about a name. Archie wanted Enid. I wanted Martha. He shifted to ElaineI tried Harriet. Not till after she was born did we compromise on Rosalind.

I know all mothers rave about their babies, but I must say that, though I personally consider new-born babies definitely hideous, Rosalind actually was a nice looking nice looking baby. She had a lot of dark hair, and she looked rather like a Red Indian; she had not that pink, bald look that is so depressing in babies, and she seemed, from an early age, both gay and determined. baby. She had a lot of dark hair, and she looked rather like a Red Indian; she had not that pink, bald look that is so depressing in babies, and she seemed, from an early age, both gay and determined.

I had an extremely nice nurse, who took grave exception to the ways of our household. Rosalind was born, of course, at Ashfield. Mothers did not go to nursing-homes in those days; the whole birth, with attendance, cost fifteen pounds, which seems to me, looking back, extremely reasonable. I kept the nurse, on my mother's advice, for an extra two weeks, so that I could get full instructions in looking after Rosalind, and also go to London and find somewhere else to live.

The night when we knew Rosalind would be born we had a curious time. Mother and Nurse Pemberton were like two females caught up in the rites of Nativity: happy, busy, important, running about with sheets, setting things to order. Archie and I wandered about, a little timid, rather nervous, like two children who were not sure they were wanted. We were both frightened and upset. Archie, as he told me afterwards, was convinced that if I died it would be all his fault. I thought I possibly might might die, and if so I would be extremely sorry because I was enjoying myself so much. But it was really just the unknown that was frightening. It was also exciting. The first time you do a thing is always exciting. die, and if so I would be extremely sorry because I was enjoying myself so much. But it was really just the unknown that was frightening. It was also exciting. The first time you do a thing is always exciting.

Now we had to make plans for the future. I left Rosalind at Ashfield with Nurse Pemberton still in charge, and went to London to find a) a place to live in; b) a nurse for Rosalind; and c) a maid to look after whatever house or flat we should find. The last was really no problem at all, for a month before Rosalind's birth who should burst in but my dear Devonshire Lucy; just out of the WAAFs, breathless, warm-hearted, full of exuberance: the same as ever, and a tower of strength. 'I've heard the news,' she said. 'I've heard you are going to have a babyand I'm ready. The moment you want me, I'll move in.'

After consultation with my mother, I decided that Lucy must be offered a wage such as never before, in my mother's or my experience, had been paid to a cook or a general maid. It was thirty-six pounds a yearan enormous sum in those daysbut Lucy was well worth it and I was delighted to have her.

By this time, nearly a year after the armistice, finding anywhere to live was about the most difficult thing in the world. Hundreds of young couples were scouring London to find anything that would suit them at a reasonable price. Premiums, too, were being asked. The whole thing was very difficult. We decided to take a furnished flat first while we looked around for something that would really suit us. Archie's plans were working out. As soon as he got his demobilisation he was going in with a City firm. I have forgotten the name of his boss by this time; I will call him for convenience Mr Goldstein. He was a large, yellow man. When I had asked Archie about him that was the first thing he had said: 'Well, he's very yellow. Fat too, but very yellow.'

At that time the City firms were being forward in offering postings to young demobilised officers. Archie's salary was to be 500 a year. I had 100 a year which I still received under my grandfather's will, and Archie had his gratuity and sufficient savings to bring him in a further 100 a year. It was not riches, even in those days; in fact it was far from riches, because rents had risen so enormously, and also the price of food. Eggs were eightpence each, which was no joke for a young couple. However, we had never expected to be rich, and had no qualms.

Looking back, it seems to me extraordinary that we should have contemplated having both a nurse and a servant, but they were considered essentials of life in those days, and were the last things we would have thought of dispensing with. To have committed the extravagance of a car, for instance, would never have entered our minds. Only the rich had cars. Sometimes, in the last days of my pregnancy, when I was waiting in queues for buses, elbowed aside because of my c.u.mbrous movementsmen were not particularly gallant at that periodI used to think as cars swept past me; 'How wonderful it would be if I I could have one one day.' could have one one day.'

I remember a friend of Archie's saying bitterly: 'n.o.body ought to be allowed to have a car unless they are on very essential business.' I never felt like that. It is always exciting, I think, to see someone someone having luck, someone who is rich, someone who has having luck, someone who is rich, someone who has jewels. jewels. Don't the children in the street all press their faces against the windows to spy on parties, to see people with diamond tiaras? Somebody has got to win the Irish Sweep-stake. If the prizes for it were only 30 there would be no excitement. Don't the children in the street all press their faces against the windows to spy on parties, to see people with diamond tiaras? Somebody has got to win the Irish Sweep-stake. If the prizes for it were only 30 there would be no excitement.

The Calcutta Sweep, the Irish Sweep, nowadays the football pools; all those things are romance. That, too, is why there are large crowds on the pavements watching film stars as they arrive at the premieres premieres of film shows. To the watchers they are heroines in wonderful evening dresses, made up to the back teeth: figures of glamour. Who wants a drab world where n.o.body is rich, or important, or beautiful, or talented? Once one stood for hours to look at kings and queens; nowadays one is more inclined to gasp at pop stars, but the principle is the same. of film shows. To the watchers they are heroines in wonderful evening dresses, made up to the back teeth: figures of glamour. Who wants a drab world where n.o.body is rich, or important, or beautiful, or talented? Once one stood for hours to look at kings and queens; nowadays one is more inclined to gasp at pop stars, but the principle is the same.

As I said, we were prepared to have a nurse and a servant as a necessary extravagance, but would never have dreamed of having a car. If we went to theatres it would be to the pit. I would have perhaps one evening dress, and that would be a black one so as not to show the dirt, and when we went out on muddy evenings, I would always of course, have, black shoes for the same reason. We would never take a taxi anywhere. There is a fashion in the way you spend your money, just as there is a fashion in everything. I'm not prepared to say now whether ours was a worse or a better way. It made for less luxury, plainer food, clothes and all those things. On the other hand, in those days you had more leisurethere was leisure to think, to read, and to indulge in hobbies and pursuits. I think I am glad that I was young in those times. There was a great deal of freedom in life, and much less hurry and worry.

We found a flat, rather luckily, quite soon. It was on the ground floor of Addison Mansions, which were two big blocks of buildings situated behind Olympia. It was a big flat, four bedrooms and two sitting-rooms. We took it furnished for five guineas a week. The woman who let it to us was a terrifically peroxided blonde of forty-five, with an immense swelling bust. She was very friendly and insisted on telling me a lot about her daughter's internal ailments. The flat was filled with particularly hideous furniture, and had some of the most sentimental pictures I have ever seen. I made a mental note that the first thing Archie and I would do would be to take them down and stack them tidily to await the owner's return. There was plenty of china and gla.s.s and all that kind of thing, including one egg-sh.e.l.l tea-set which frightened me because I thought it so fragile that it was sure to get broken. With Lucy's aid, we stored it away in one of the cupboards as soon as we arrived.

I then visited Mrs Boucher's Bureau, which was the recognised rendezvousindeed I believe it still isfor those who want nannies. Mrs Boucher managed to bring me down to earth rather quickly. She sniffed at the wages I was willing to pay, inquired about conditions and what staff I kept, and then sent me to a small room where prospective employees were interviewed. A large, competent woman was the first to come in. The mere sight of her filled me with alarm. The sight of me, however, did not fill her with any alarm whatever. 'Yes, Madam? How many children would it be?' I explained that it would be one baby.

'And from the month, I hope? I never consent to taking any baby unless it is from the month. I get my babies into good ways as soon as possible.'

I said it would be from the month.

'And what staff do you keep, Madam?'

I said apologetically that as staff I kept one maid. She sniffed again. 'I'm afraid, Madam, that would hardly suit me. You see, I have been accustomed to having my nurseries waited on and looked after, and a fully equipped and pleasant establishment.' I agreed that my post was not what she was looking for, and got rid of her with some relief. I saw three more, but they all despised me.

However, I returned for further interviews the next day. This time I was lucky. I came across Jessie Swannell, thirty-five, sharp of tongue, kind of heart, who had lived most of her time as nurse with a family in Nigeria. I broke to her, one by one, the shameful conditions of my employment. Only one maid, one nursery, not a day and night nursery, the grate attended to, but otherwise she would have to do her own nursery andfinal and last strawthe wages.

'Ah well,' she said, 'it doesn't sound too bad. I'm used to hard work, and that doesn't bother me. A little girl, is it? I like girls.'

So Jessie Swannell and I fixed it up. She was with me two years, and I liked her very much, though she had her disadvantages. She was one of those who by nature dislike the parents of the child they are looking after. To Rosalind she was goodness itself, and would have died for her, I think. Me she regarded as an interloper, though she grudgingly did as I wanted her to do, even if she did not always agree with me. On the other hand, if any disaster occurred, she was splendid; kind, ready to help, and cheerful. Yes, I respect Jessie Swannell, and I hope she has had a good life and done the kind of thing she wanted to do.

So all was settled, and Rosalind, myself, Jessie Swannell, and Lucy all arrived at Addison Mansions and started family life. Not that my search was ended. I had now to look for an unfurnished flat to be our permanent home. That of course was not so easy: in fact it was h.e.l.lishly difficult. As soon as one heard of anything one rushed off, rang up, wrote letters, yet there really seemed to be nothing possible. Sometimes they were dirty, shabby, so broken down that you could hardly imagine living in them. Time after time someone got in just ahead of you. We circled London: Hampstead, Chiswick, Pimlico, Kensington, St. John's Woodmy day seemed one long bus tour. We visited all the estate agents; and before long we began to get anxious. Our furnished let was only two months. When the peroxided Mrs N. and her married daughter and children returned they would not be likely to let it to us for any longer. We must must find something. find something.

At last it seemed we were lucky. We secured, or more or less secured, a flat near Battersea Park. Its rent was reasonable, the owner, Miss Llewellyn, was moving out in about a month's time, but would actually be content to go a little sooner. She was moving to a flat in a different part of London. All seemed settled, but we had counted our chickens too soon. A terrible blow befell us. Only about a fortnight before the date of moving we heard from Miss Llewellyn that she was unable to get into her her new flat, because the people in it were in their turn unable to get into theirs! It was a chain reaction. new flat, because the people in it were in their turn unable to get into theirs! It was a chain reaction.

It was a severe blow. Every two or three days we telephoned to Miss Llewellyn for news. The news was worse each time. Always, it seemed, the other people were having more difficulty getting into their flat, so she was equally full of doubt about leaving her own. It finally seemed as though it might be three or four months before we would be able to get possession, and even that date was uncertain. Feverishly, we began once again studying the advertis.e.m.e.nts, ringing up house agents, and all the rest of it. Time went on, and by now we were desperate. Then a house agent rang up and offered us not a flat but a house. A small house in Scarsdale Villas. It was for sale though, not to let. Archie and I went and saw it. It was a charming little house. It would mean selling out practically all the small capital we hada terrible risk. However, we felt we had to risk something, something, so we duly agreed to buy it, signed on a dotted line and went home to decide what securities we should sell. so we duly agreed to buy it, signed on a dotted line and went home to decide what securities we should sell.

It was two mornings later when, at breakfast, I was glancing through the paper, turning first to the flat column, which by now was such a habit with me that I was unable to stop it, and saw an advertis.e.m.e.nt: 'Flat to let unfurnished, 96 Addison Mansions, 90 per annum.' I uttered a hoa.r.s.e cry, dashed down my coffee cup, read the advertis.e.m.e.nt to Archie, and said, 'There's no time to lose!'

I rushed from the breakfast table, crossed the gra.s.s courtyard between the two blocks at a run, and went up the stairs of the opposite block, four flights of them, like a maniac. The time was a quarter past eight in the morning. I rang the bell of No. 96. It was opened by a startled-looking young woman in a dressing-gown.

'I've come about the flat,' I said, with as much coherence as I could manage in my breathlessness.

'About this this flat? flat? Already? Already? I only put the advertis.e.m.e.nt in yesterday. I didn't expect anyone so soon.' I only put the advertis.e.m.e.nt in yesterday. I didn't expect anyone so soon.'

'Can I see it?'

'Well...Well, it's a little early.'

'I think it will do for us,' I said. 'I think I'll take it.'

'Oh, well, I suppose you can look round. It's not very tidy.' She drew back.

I charged in regardless of her hesitations, took one rapid look round the flat; I was not going to run any risk of losing it.

'90 per annum?' I asked.

'Yes, that's the rent. But I must warn you it's only a quarterly lease.' I considered that for a moment, but it did not deter me. I wanted somewhere to live, and soon. soon.

'And when is possession?'

'Oh well, any time reallyin a week or two? My husband's got to go abroad suddenly. And we want a premium for the linoleum and fittings.'

I did not much take to the linoleum surrounds, but what did that matter? Four bedrooms, two sitting-rooms, a nice outlook on greenfour flights of stairs to come up and down, true, but plenty of light and air. It wanted doing up, but we could do that ourselves. Oh, it was wonderfula G.o.dsend.

'I'll take it,' I said. 'That's definite.'

'Oh, you're sure? You haven't told me your name.'

I told her, explained that I was living in a furnished flat opposite, and all was settled. I rang up the agents there and then from her flat. I had been beaten to the punch too often before. As I descended the stairs again I met three couples coming up; each of them, I could see at a glance, going to No. 96. This time we we had won. I went back and told Archie in triumph. had won. I went back and told Archie in triumph.

'Splendid,' he said. At that moment the telephone rang. It was Miss Llewellyn. 'I think,' she said, 'that you will be able to have the flat quite certainly in a month now.'

'Oh,' I said. 'Oh yes, I see.' I put back the receiver. 'Good Lord,' said Archie. 'Do you know what we've got? We've now taken two two flats flats and and bought a house!' bought a house!'

It seemed something of a problem. I was about to ring up Miss Llewellyn and tell her we didn't want the flat, but then a better idea occurred to me. 'We'll try to get out of the Scarsdale Villa house,' I said, 'but we'll take the Battersea flat, and we'll ask a premium for it from someone else. That will pay the premium on this one.' That will pay the premium on this one.'

Archie approved highly of this idea, and I think myself it was a moment of high financial genius on my part, because we could ill afford the 100 premium. Then we went to see the agents about the house we had bought in Scarsdale Villas. They were really very amiable. They said it would be quite easy to sell it to someone elsein fact there were several people who had been bitterly disappointed about it. So we got out of that with no more than a small fee to the agents.

We had a flat, and in two weeks time we moved into it. Jessie Swannell was a brick. She made no trouble at all about having to go up and down four flights of stairs, which was more than I would have believed possible of any other nurse from Mrs Boucher's.

'Ah well,' she said, 'I'm used to lugging things about. Mind you, I could do with a n.i.g.g.e.r or two. That's the best of Nigeriaplenty of n.i.g.g.e.rs.'

We loved our flat, and threw ourselves heartily into the business of decoration. We spent a good portion of Archie's gratuity on furniture: good modern furniture for Rosalind's nursery from Heal's, good beds from Heal's for usand quite a lot of things came up from Ashfield, which was far too crowded with tables and chairs and cabinets, plate and linen. We also went to sales and bought odd chests of drawers and old-fashioned wardrobes for a song.

When we got into our new flat we chose papers and decided on paintsome of the work we did ourselves, part we got in a small painter and decorator to help us with. The two sitting-roomsa quite large drawing-room and a rather smaller dining-roomfaced over the court, but they faced north. I preferred the rooms at the end of a long pa.s.sage at the back. They were not quite so big, but they were sunny and cheerful, so we decided to have our sitting-room and Rosalind's nursery in the two back rooms. The bathroom was opposite them, and there was a small maid's room. Of the two large rooms we made the larger our bedroom and the smaller a dining-room and possible emergency spare-room. Archie chose the bathroom decoration: a brilliant scarlet and white tiled paper. Our decorator and paper-hanger was extremely kind to me. He showed me how to cut and fold wallpaper in the proper way ready for pasting, and, as he put it, 'not to be afraid of it' when we papered the walls. 'Slap it on, see? You can't do any harm. If it tears, you paste it over. Cut it all out first, and have it all measured, and write the number on the back. That's right. Slap it on. A hairbrush is a very good thing to use to take the bubbles out.' I became quite efficient in the end. The ceilings we left to him to deal withI didn't feel ready to do a ceiling.

Rosalind's room had pale yellow water paint on the walls, and there again I learnt a little about decoration. One thing our mentor did not warn me about was that if you did not get spots of water paint off the floor quickly it hardened up and you could only remove it with a chisel. However, one learns by experience. We did Rosalind's nursery with an expensive frieze of paper from Heal's with animals round the top of the walls. In the sitting-room I decided to have very pale pink shiny walls and to paper the ceiling with a black glossy paper with hawthorn all over it. It would make me feel, I thought, that I was in the country. It would also make the room look lower, and I liked low rooms. In a small room they looked more cottagey. The ceiling paper was to be put on by the professional of course, but he proved unexpectedly averse to doing it.

'Now, look here, Missus, you've got it wrong, you know. What you want is the ceiling done pale pink and the black paper on the walls.'

'No, I don't,' I said, 'I want the black paper on the ceiling and the pink distemper on the walls.'

'But that's not the way you do do rooms. See? You're going light up to dark. That's the wrong way. You should do dark up to light.' rooms. See? You're going light up to dark. That's the wrong way. You should do dark up to light.'

'You don't have to dark up to light if you prefer prefer light up to dark,' I argued. light up to dark,' I argued.

'Well, I can only tell you, Ma'am, that it's the wrong way and that n.o.body ever does it.'

I said that I I was going to do it. was going to do it.

'It will bring the ceiling right down, you see if it doesn't. It will make the ceiling come down towards the floor. It will make the room look quite low.'

'I want want it to look low.' it to look low.'

He gave me up then, and shrugged his shoulders. When it was finished I asked him if he didn't like it.

'Well,' he said, 'it's odd. No, I can't say I like like it, but...well, it's odd like, but it is quite pretty if you sit in a chair and look up.' it, but...well, it's odd like, but it is quite pretty if you sit in a chair and look up.'

'That's the idea,' I said.

'But if I was you, and you wanted to do that sort of thing, I'd have had one of them bright blue papers with stars.'

'I don't want to think I'm out of doors at night,' I said. 'I like to think I'm in a cherry blossom orchard or under a hawthorn tree.'

He shook his head sadly.

Most of the curtains we had made for us. The loose covers I had decided to make myself. My sister Madgenow renamed Punkie: her son's name for hera.s.sured me in her usual positive fashion that this was quite easy to do. 'Just pin and cut them wrong side out,' she said, 'then st.i.tch them, and turn them outside in. It's quite simple; anyone could do it.'

I had a try. They did not look very professional, and I did not dare to attempt any piping, but they looked bright and nice. All our friends admired our flat, and we never had such a happy time as when settling in there. Lucy thought it was marvellous, and enjoyed every minute of it. Jessie Swannell grumbled the whole time, but was surprisingly helpful. I was quite content for her to hate us, or rather meI don't think she disapproved of Archie quite so much. 'After all,' as I explained to her one day, 'a baby has got to have have parents or you wouldn't have one to look after.' parents or you wouldn't have one to look after.'

'Ah well, I suppose you've got something there,' said Jessie, and she gave a grudging smile.