Agahta Christie - An autobiography Part 7

The procedure of dancing-cla.s.s was as follows. It started with what were called 'expanders', which exercised your chest and arms. They were a sort of blue ribbon elastic with handles. You stretched these vigorously for about half an hour. There was then the polka, which was danced by all once they had graduated from thump, thump, thumpthe older girls in the cla.s.s dancing with the younger ones. 'Have you seen me dance the polka? Have you seen my coat-tails fly?' The polka was merry and unattractive. Then you had the grand march, in which, in pairs, you went up the middle of the room, round the sides, and into various figures of eight, the seniors leading, the juniors following up. You had partners for the march whom you engaged yourself, and a good deal of heart-burning took place over this. Naturally, everybody wished to have as partner either Helen or Aileen, but Miss Hickey saw to it that there were no particular monopolies. After the march the smaller ones were removed to the junior room, where they learned the steps of either the polka or, later, the waltz, or steps in their fancy dances at which they were particularly maladroit. The seniors did their fancy dance under the eye of Miss Hickey in the big room. This consisted of either a tambourine dance, a Spanish castanet dance, or a fan dance.

Talking of the fan dance, I once mentioned to my daughter, Rosalind, and her friend Susan, when they were girls of eighteen or nineteen, that I used to do a fan dance in my youth. Their ribald laughter puzzled me.

'You didn't really, mother, did you? A fan dance! Susan, she did a fan dance!'

'Oh,' said Susan, 'I always thought that Victorians were so particular.' It dawned on us soon, however, that by a fan dance we did not mean exactly the same thing.

After that the seniors sat out and the juniors did their dance, which was the Sailor's Hornpipe or some gay little folk dance, not too difficult.

Finally we entered into the complications of The Lancers. We were also taught the Swedish Country Dance, and Sir Roger de Coverley. These last were especially useful because when you went to parties you were not shamed by ignorance of such social activities.

At Torquay we were almost entirely girls. When I went to dancing-cla.s.s in Ealing there was quite a number of boys. This I think was when I was about nine, very shy, and not as yet adept in dancing. A boy of considerable charm, probably a year or two older than I was, came up and asked me to be his partner in The Lancers. Upset and downcast, I said that I couldn't dance The Lancers. It seemed to me hard; I had never seen so attractive a boy. He had dark hair, merry eyes., and I felt at once that we were going to be soul-mates. I sat down sadly when The Lancers began, and almost immediately Mrs Wordsworth's representative came up to me. 'Now, Agatha, we can't have anyone sitting out.'

'I don't know how to dance The Lancers, Mrs Wordsworth.'

'No, dear, but you can soon learn. We must find you a partner.'

She seized a freckled boy with a snub nose and sandy hair; he also had adenoids. 'Here you are. Here is William.' During The Lancers, when we were engaged in visiting, I came up against my first love and his partner. He whispered to me, in dudgeon: 'You wouldn't dance with me, me, and here you are. It is very unkind of you.' I tried to tell him that I couldn't help it, that I had thought I couldn't dance The Lancers but I was told I had tobut there is not time when you are visiting in The Lancers to enter into explanations. He continued to look reproachfully at me until the end of the dancing-cla.s.s. I hoped I might meet him the following week, but alas I never saw him again: one of life's sad love stories. and here you are. It is very unkind of you.' I tried to tell him that I couldn't help it, that I had thought I couldn't dance The Lancers but I was told I had tobut there is not time when you are visiting in The Lancers to enter into explanations. He continued to look reproachfully at me until the end of the dancing-cla.s.s. I hoped I might meet him the following week, but alas I never saw him again: one of life's sad love stories.

The waltz was the only dance I learned that was going to be useful to me through life, and I have never really liked waltzing. I do not like the rhythm, and I always used to get exceedingly giddy, especially when honoured by Miss Hickey. She had a wonderful sweep round in the waltz, which practically took you off your feet, and which left you at the end of the performance with your head reeling, hardly able to stand up. But I must admit that it was a beautiful sight to watch her.

Fraulein Uder disappeared from my life; I don't know where or when. Perhaps she went back to Germany. She was replaced a little later by a young man called, as far as I remember, Mr Trotter. He was the organist of one of the churches; was rather a depressing teacher, and I had to adopt an entirely different style. I had to sit practically on the floor, with my hands reaching upward to get to the keys of the piano, and everything had to be played from the wrist. Fraulein Uder's method, I think, must have been to sit high and play from the elbows. One was more or less poised above the piano so as to be able to come down on the keys with maximum power. Very satisfactory!

V

It must have been shortly after our return from the Channel Isles that the shadow of my father's illness began to be felt. He had not been well abroad, and had twice consulted a doctor. The second doctor had pro-pounded a somewhat alarmist view, namely that my father suffered from a kidney disease. After our return to England he consulted our own doctor, who did not agree with that diagnosis and who sent him to a specialist. After that, the shadow was there, faint, felt only by a child as one of those atmospheric disturbances which are to the psychic world as an approaching thunderstorm is to the physical one.

Medical science seemed to be of little use. Father went to two or three specialists. The first one said it was definitely a heart condition. I don't remember the details of it now; I only remember listening to my mother and sister talking, and the words 'an inflammation of the nerves surrounding the heart,' which sounded to me very frightening. Another doctor who was consulted put it down entirely to gastric trouble.

At increasingly short intervals my father had attacks of pain and breathlessness during the night, and my mother sat up with him, altering his position and giving him such medicaments as had been ordered by the last doctor.

As always there was a pathetic belief in the last doctor whom we had consulted, and the latest regime or treatment that we adopted. Faith does a lotfaith, novelty, a dynamic personality in a doctorbut it cannot in the end deal with the real organic complaint that is at the bottom of it.

Most of the time my father was his usual cheerful self, but the atmosphere of our home altered. He still went to the club, spent his summer days at the cricket ground, came back with amusing storieswas the same kindly personality. He was never cross or irritable, but the shadow of apprehension was therealso felt, of course, by my mother, who made valiant attempts to rea.s.sure my father and to tell him that he looked better, felt better, was was better. better.

At the same time the shadow of financial worry darkened. The money from my grandfather's will had been invested in house property in New York, but the buildings were leasehold, not freehold. By now, apparently, they were in a part of the city where the land would have been valuable, but the buildings were worth practically nothing. The owner of the land was, I gather, unco-operativean elderly woman of seventy odd, who appeared to have a stranglehold, preventing any development or improvement. The income that should have come over seemed always to be swallowed up in repairs or taxation.

Catching sc.r.a.ps of conversation which seemed to me of dramatic import, I hurried upstairs and announced to Marie in the best manner of Victorian stories that we were ruined. Marie did not seem to me as distressed as I thought she ought to have been, however, she must have attempted some condolence with my mother, who came to me with some annoyance.

'Really, Agatha, you must not not repeat things in an exaggerated way. We are repeat things in an exaggerated way. We are not not ruined. We are just badly off for the time being and will have to economise.' ruined. We are just badly off for the time being and will have to economise.'

'Not ruined?' I said, deeply chagrined. ruined?' I said, deeply chagrined.

'Not ruined,' said my mother firmly.

I must admit that I was disappointed. In the many books I had read ruin happened frequently, and was treated as it should be treatedseriously. There would be threats of blowing out one's brains, a heroine leaving a rich mansion in rags, and so on.

'I forgot you were even in the room,' said my mother. 'But you understand, no repeating of things that you overhear.'

I said I would not, but I felt injured because only a short time before I had been criticised for not not telling what I had overheard of another incident. telling what I had overheard of another incident.

Tony and I had been seated under the dining-room table one night just before dinner. It was a favourite place of ours, suitable for the playing of adventures in crypts, dungeons, and the like.

We were hardly daring to breathe, so that the robbers who had imprisoned us should not hear usthis was not true of Tony who was fat and pantedwhen Barter, the housemaid who a.s.sisted the parlourmaid at dinner, came in with the tureen of soup which she placed on the sideboard hot plate. She lifted the lid and inserted the big soup ladle.

Ladling out a spoonful, she took some swigs from it. Lewis, the parlour-maid, came in and said: 'I am just going to ring the gong' then broke off and exclaimed, 'Why, Louie, whatever are are you doing?' you doing?'

'Just refreshing myself,' said Barter, with a hearty laugh. 'Mm, not bad soup,' and she took another swig.

'Now, you put that back and the lid on,' said Lewis, shocked. 'Really!'

Barter laughed her fat good-natured chuckle, put back the ladle, replaced the lid, and departed to the kitchen for the soup plates as Tony and I emerged.

'Is it good soup?' I inquired with interest, as I prepared to take myself off.

'Oh, I never! Miss Agatha, you give me such a fright, you did.'

I was mildly surprised, but never mentioned it until one day a couple of years later. My mother, talking to Madge, mentioned our former housemaid, Barter. I suddenly broke into the conversation, saying, 'I remember Barter. She used to drink soup out of the tureen in the dining-room before you all came into dinner.'

This caused lively interest on the part of both my mother and Madge. 'But why didn't you ever tell tell me?' asked mother. I stared at her. I couldn't see the point. me?' asked mother. I stared at her. I couldn't see the point.

'Well,' I said, 'it seemed' I hesitated, mustering all my dignity, and proclaimed: 'I don't care for parting with information.'

After that it was always a joke brought up against me. 'Agatha doesn't like parting with information.' 'Agatha doesn't like parting with information.' It was true enough. I didn't. Unless they struck me as apposite or interesting, I tucked away any sc.r.a.ps of information that came to me, locked them up, as it were, in a file inside my head. This was incomprehensible to the rest of my family, who were all extrovert talkers. If asked to keep a secret they never by any chance remembered to do so! It made them all much more entertaining than I was. It was true enough. I didn't. Unless they struck me as apposite or interesting, I tucked away any sc.r.a.ps of information that came to me, locked them up, as it were, in a file inside my head. This was incomprehensible to the rest of my family, who were all extrovert talkers. If asked to keep a secret they never by any chance remembered to do so! It made them all much more entertaining than I was.

If Madge went to a dance or to a garden party, when she came back she had quant.i.ties of amusing things to tell. Indeed my sister was an entertaining person in every waywherever she went things happened to her. Even later in life, going down the village to do a little marketing, she would come back with something extraordinary that had occurred or something somebody had said. These things were not untruths, eitherthere was always a good foundation of fact, but worked up by Madge to make a better story.

I, on the contrary, presumably taking after my father in this respect, when asked if anything amusing had happened, would immediately say, 'Nothing'. 'What was Mrs So-and-so wearing at the party?' 'I don't remember.' 'Mrs S. has done up her drawing-room again I hear; what colour is it now?' 'I didn't look.' 'Oh, Agatha, you really are hopeless, hopeless, you never notice you never notice anything.' anything.'

I continued on the whole to keep my own counsel. I don't think I meant to be secretive. It just seemed to me that most things didn't matterso why keep talking about them? Or else I was so busy conducting the conversations and quarrels of 'the girls' and inventing adventures for Tony and myself that I could not pay attention to the small affairs going on round me. It took something like a rumour of ruin to get me really aroused. Undoubtedly I was a dull child, with every prospect of growing up to be the kind of person who is most difficult to integrate properly in a party.

I have never been good at partiesand never much enjoyed them. I suppose there were were children's parties, but I don't think there were nearly as many then as there are nowadays. I do remember going to tea with friends and friends coming to tea with me. That I did enjoyand do nowadays. Set Parties, I think, in my youth only happened round Christmas time. I seem to remember one fancy-dress party and another at which there was a conjuror. children's parties, but I don't think there were nearly as many then as there are nowadays. I do remember going to tea with friends and friends coming to tea with me. That I did enjoyand do nowadays. Set Parties, I think, in my youth only happened round Christmas time. I seem to remember one fancy-dress party and another at which there was a conjuror.

I fancy my mother was anti-party, being of the opinion that children got too hot, over-excited and over-eaten, and frequently came home and were sick from all three causes. She was probably right. At any children's parties of any size that I have gone to, I have come to the conclusion that at least a third of the children are not really enjoying themselves.

A party is controllable up to twenty in numberbeyond that, I should say, it is dominated by a lavatory complex! Children who want to go to the lavatory, who don't like to say they want to go to the lavatory, leave going to the lavatory till the last minute, and so on. If the lavatories are inadequate to deal with large quant.i.ties of children who all want to use them at once, chaos and some regrettable incidents ensue. I remember one little girl of only two whose mother had been persuaded, against the advice of her experienced Nanny, to bring her child to one party. 'Annette is so sweet, she must come. I'm sure she will enjoy it, and we'll all take great great care of her.' As soon as they got to the party her mother, to be on the safe side, marched her to a potty. Annette, worked up to a fever of excitement, was quite unable to do her little performance. 'Oh, well, perhaps she doesn't really want to go,' said the mother hopefully. They came downstairs and when a conjuror was producing things of every kind from his ears and his nose, and making the children laugh, and they were all standing round shouting and clapping their hands, the worst happened. care of her.' As soon as they got to the party her mother, to be on the safe side, marched her to a potty. Annette, worked up to a fever of excitement, was quite unable to do her little performance. 'Oh, well, perhaps she doesn't really want to go,' said the mother hopefully. They came downstairs and when a conjuror was producing things of every kind from his ears and his nose, and making the children laugh, and they were all standing round shouting and clapping their hands, the worst happened.

'My dear,' said an elderly aunt, recounting this to my mother. 'You really have never seen anything like itpoor child. Right in the middle of the floor. Just like a horse, horse, it was!' it was!'

Marie must have left some time before my father's deathpossibly a year or two. She had contracted to come for two years to England, but she stayed on at least a year after. She was homesick for her family and, also, I think, being sensible and practical, realised it was time for her to think in a serious French way about marriage. She had saved up a very nice little dot dot from her wages, and so, with tears, fond embraces to her 'dear Mees', Marie went, and left me very lonely. from her wages, and so, with tears, fond embraces to her 'dear Mees', Marie went, and left me very lonely.

We had, however, before she departed, come to an agreement on the subject of my sister's future husband. That, as I have said, had been one of our continual sources of speculation. Marie's selection had been firmly 'le Monsieur blond'. 'le Monsieur blond'.

My mother, as a girl living with her aunt in Cheshire, had had a schoolfriend to whom she was much devoted. When Annie Browne married James Watts and my mother married her step-cousin Frederick Miller the two girls agreed that they would never forget each other and that they would always exchange letters and news. Although my grandmother left Cheshire for London, the two girls still kept in touch with each other. Annie Watts had five childrenfour boys and a girlmother, of course, had three. They exchanged photographs of their children at various ages, and sent presents to them at Christmas.

So when my sister was going on a visit to Ireland, to make up her mind whether she was going to get engaged to a certain young man who was anxious to marry her, my mother mentioned Madge's journey to Annie Watts, and Annie begged Madge to come and stay at Abney Hall in Cheshire, on her way back from Holyhead. She would so much like to see one of mother's children.

Madge, therefore, having had a good time in Ireland and having decided that she did not not want to marry Charlie P. after all, broke her journey back and stayed with the Watts family. The eldest son, James, who was then twenty-one or twenty-two, and was still at Oxford, was a quiet fair-haired young man. He had a soft low voice and did not speak much, and he paid much less attention to my sister than most young men did. She found this so extraordinary that it excited her interest. She took a good deal of trouble over James, but was not sure what effect she had made. Anyway, after she came home, desultory correspondence took place between them. want to marry Charlie P. after all, broke her journey back and stayed with the Watts family. The eldest son, James, who was then twenty-one or twenty-two, and was still at Oxford, was a quiet fair-haired young man. He had a soft low voice and did not speak much, and he paid much less attention to my sister than most young men did. She found this so extraordinary that it excited her interest. She took a good deal of trouble over James, but was not sure what effect she had made. Anyway, after she came home, desultory correspondence took place between them.

Actually James had been bowled over by her from the first moment she appeared, but it was not in his nature to display such emotion. He was shy and reserved. He came to stay with us the following summer. I took a great fancy to him at once. He was kind to me, always treating me seriously, and not making silly jokes or talking to me as though I was a little girl. He treated me as an individual, and I became devoted to him. Marie also thought well of him. So 'le Monsieur blond' was constantly discussed between us in the sewing room.

'I don't think they really seem to care for each other very much, Marie.'

'Ah, mais oui, mais oui, he thinks of her a great deal, and he watches her when she is not looking. Oh yes, he thinks of her a great deal, and he watches her when she is not looking. Oh yes, il est bien epris. il est bien epris. And it would be a good marriage, very sensible. He has the good prospects, I hear, and is And it would be a good marriage, very sensible. He has the good prospects, I hear, and is tout a fait un garcon serieux. tout a fait un garcon serieux. He will make a very good husband. And Mademoiselle, she is gay, witty, full of fun and laughter. It will suit her well to have a quiet and steady husband, and he will appreciate her because she is so different.' He will make a very good husband. And Mademoiselle, she is gay, witty, full of fun and laughter. It will suit her well to have a quiet and steady husband, and he will appreciate her because she is so different.'

The person who didn't like him, I think, was my father, but I believe that is almost inevitable with the fathers of charming and gay daughtersthey want somebody much better than could ever have been born at all. Mothers are supposed to feel the same about their sons' wives. As my brother never married, my mother was not affected that way.

I must say, she never considered that her daughters' husbands were good enough for them, but she admitted herself that that was a failing on her part rather than a failing on theirs. 'Of course,' she said, 'I can't think any any man would be good enough for either of my two daughters.' man would be good enough for either of my two daughters.'

One of the great joys in life was the local theatre. We were all lovers of the theatre in my family. Madge and Monty went practically every week and usually I was allowed to accompany them. As I grew older it became more and more frequent. We went to the pit stalls alwaysthe pit itself was supposed to be 'rough'. The pit cost a shilling and the pit stalls, which were two rows of seats in front, behind about ten rows of stalls, were where the Miller family sat, enjoying every kind of theatrical entertainment.

I don't know whether it was the first play I saw, but certainly among the first was Hearts are Trumps, Hearts are Trumps, a roaring melodrama of the worst type. There was a villain in it, the wicked woman was called Lady Winifred, and there was a beautiful girl who had been done out of a fortune. Revolvers were fired, and I clearly remember the last scene, when a young man hanging by a rope from the Alps cut the rope and died heroically to save either the girl he loved or the man whom the girl he loved loved. I remember going through this story point by point. 'I suppose,' I said, 'that the really bad ones were Spades'father being a great whist player, I was always hearing talk of cards'and the ones who weren't quite so bad were Clubs. I think perhaps Lady Winifred was a Clubbecause she repentedand so did the man who cut the rope on the mountain. And the diamonds' I reflected. 'Just worldly,' I said, in my Victorian tone of disapproval. a roaring melodrama of the worst type. There was a villain in it, the wicked woman was called Lady Winifred, and there was a beautiful girl who had been done out of a fortune. Revolvers were fired, and I clearly remember the last scene, when a young man hanging by a rope from the Alps cut the rope and died heroically to save either the girl he loved or the man whom the girl he loved loved. I remember going through this story point by point. 'I suppose,' I said, 'that the really bad ones were Spades'father being a great whist player, I was always hearing talk of cards'and the ones who weren't quite so bad were Clubs. I think perhaps Lady Winifred was a Clubbecause she repentedand so did the man who cut the rope on the mountain. And the diamonds' I reflected. 'Just worldly,' I said, in my Victorian tone of disapproval.

One of the great yearly events was the Torquay Regatta, which took place on the last Monday and Tuesday in August. I started saving up for it at the beginning of May. When I say I remember the Regatta I do not so much mean the yacht racing as the Fair which accompanied it. Madge, of course, used to go with father to Haldon Pier to watch the sailing, and we usually had a house party staying for the Regatta Ball in the evening. Father, mother and Madge used to go to the Regatta Yacht Club tea in the afternoon, and all the various functions connected with sailing. Madge never did more sailing than she could help, because she was, throughout her life, an incurably bad sailor. However, a pa.s.sionate interest was taken in our friends' yacht. There were picnics and parties, but this was the social side of the Regatta in which I was too young to partic.i.p.ate.

My looked-forward-to joy in life was the Fair. The merry-go-rounds, where you rode on horses with manes, round and round and round, and a kind of switchback where you tore up and down slopes. Two machines blared music, and as you came round on the horses and the switchback cars, the tunes combined to make a horrible cacophony. Then there were all the showsthe Fat Woman; Madame Arensky, who told the Future; the Human Spider, horrible to look at; the Shooting Gallery, where Madge and Monty spent always a great deal of time and money. And there were coconut shies, from which Monty used to obtain large quant.i.ties of coconuts and bring them home to me. I was pa.s.sionately fond of coconut. I was given a few shies at the coconuts myself, gallantly allowed so far forward by the man in charge that I sometimes actually managed to knock a coconut off. Coconut shies were proper proper coconut shies then. Nowadays there are still shies, but the coconuts are so arranged in a kind of saucer that nothing but the most stupendous mixture of luck and strength would topple one. Then one had a sporting chance. Out of six shots you usually got one, and Monty once got five. coconut shies then. Nowadays there are still shies, but the coconuts are so arranged in a kind of saucer that nothing but the most stupendous mixture of luck and strength would topple one. Then one had a sporting chance. Out of six shots you usually got one, and Monty once got five.

The hoop-las, the Kewpie dolls, the pointers and all those things had not arrived yet. There were various stalls that sold things. My particular pa.s.sion was what were known as penny monkeys. They cost a penny, and they were fluffy little representations of monkeys on a long pin which you stuck into your coat. Every year I purchased six to eight of these, and added them to my collectionpink, green, brown, red, yellow. As the years went by it became more difficult to find a different colour or a different pattern.

There was also the famous nougat, which only appeared at the Fair. A man stood behind a table chopping nougat from an enormous pink and white block in front of him. He yelled, shouted, and offered bits for auction. 'Now, friends, sixpence for a stupendous piece! All right, love, cut it in half. Now then, what about that for fourpence?' and so on and so on. There were some ready-made packets which you could buy for twopence, but the fun was entering the auction. 'There, to the little lady there. Yes, twopence halfpenny to you.'

Goldfish did not arrive as a novelty in the Regatta until I was about twelve. It was a great excitement when they did. The whole stall was covered with goldfish bowls, one fish in each, and you threw ping-pong b.a.l.l.s for them. If a ball lodged in the mouth of one of the bowls, the goldfish was yours. That, like the coconuts, was fairly easy to begin with. The first Regatta they appeared we got eleven between us, and bore them home in triumph to live in the Tub. But the price had soon advanced from a penny a ball to sixpence a ball.

In the evening there were fireworks. Since we could not see them from our houseor only the very high rocketswe usually spent the evening with some friends who lived just over the harbour. It was a nine o'clock party, with lemonade, ices and biscuits handed round. That was another delight of those days that I miss very much, not being of an alcoholic persuasionthe garden parties.

The garden parties of pre-1914 were something to be remembered. Everyone was dressed up to the nines, high-heeled shoes, muslin frocks with blue sashes, large leghorn hats with drooping roses. There were lovely icesstrawberry, vanilla, pistachio, orange-water and raspberry-water was the usual selectionwith every kind of cream cake, of sandwich, of eclair, and peaches, muscat grapes, and nectarines. From this I deduce that garden parties were practically always held in August. I don't remember any strawberries and cream.

There was a certain pain in getting there, of course. Those who hadn't got carriages took a hired cab if they were aged or infirm, but all the young people walked a mile and a half to two miles from different parts of Torquay; some might be lucky and live near, but others were always bound to be a good way away, because Torquay is built on seven hills. There is no doubt that walking up hills in high-heeled shoes, holding up one's long skirt in one's left hand and one's parasol in the right, was something of an ordeal. It was worth it, however, to get to the garden party.

My father died when I was eleven. His health had got slowly worse, but his illness seems never to have been precisely diagnosed. There is no doubt that constant financial worry weakened his resistance to illness of any kind.

He had been at Ealing, staying with his stepmother for about a week, and seeing various friends in London who might be able to help him find some kind of job. Finding jobs was not an easy thing to do at that particular date. Either you were a lawyer or a doctor or managed an estate, were in one of the services, or were a barrister, but the great world of business did not provide the livelihood that we expect of it nowadays. There were big financial banking houses, such as Pierpont Morgan's, and others in which my father had some acquaintances, but everyone was of course a professionaleither you belonged to one of the banking houses and had been in it ever since you were a boy, or you did not. My father, like most of his contemporaries, was not trained for anything. He did a great deal of charitable work, and other things that would nowadays provide a paid position, but it was very different then.

His financial position was perplexing to him, and indeed perplexed his executors after his death. It was a question of where the money left by my grandfather had disappeared to. My father had lived well within his supposed income. It was there on paper, but it was never there in fact, and there always seemed to be plausible excuses to explain this and to show that this default would only be temporaryjust a matter of special repairs. The estate was no doubt mismanaged by the Trustees and by their successors, but it was too late to remedy that.

He worried, the weather was cold, he caught a bad chill, and double pneumonia developed. My mother was sent for to Ealing, and presently Madge and I followed her there. He was by then very ill. My mother never left him, night or day. We had two hospital nurses in the house. I wandered about, unhappy and frightened, praying earnestly that father might get well again.

One picture remains etched in my mind. It was afternoon. I was standing on the half landing. Suddenly the door of father and mother's bedroom opened. My mother came out in a kind of rush, her hands held to her head over her eyes. She rushed from there into the adjoining room and shut the door behind her. A hospital nurse came out and spoke to Grannie, who was coming up the stairs. 'It's all over,' she said. I knew then that my father was dead.

They did not take a child to the funeral of course. I wandered about the house in a queer state of turmoil. Something awful had happened, something that I had never envisaged could could happen. The blinds of the house were pulled down, the lamps were lit. In the dining-room, in her big chair, Grannie sat writing endless letters, in her own peculiar style. From time to time she shook her head sadly. happen. The blinds of the house were pulled down, the lamps were lit. In the dining-room, in her big chair, Grannie sat writing endless letters, in her own peculiar style. From time to time she shook her head sadly.

Except when she got up to go to the funeral, my mother lay in her room. She did not eat anything for two days, because I heard Hannah commenting on the fact. I remember Hannah with grat.i.tude. Dear old Hannah, with her worn, lined face. She beckoned me to the kitchen and told me she needed someone to help her mix pastry. 'They were very devoted,' said Hannah, again and again. 'It was a good marriage.'

Yes, it was indeed a good marriage. I found among various old things, a letter written by my father to my mother, possibly only three or four days before his death. He wrote of how he longed to return to her at Torquay; nothing satisfactory had been arranged in London, but he felt, he said, he would forget it all when he was back with his dearest Clara again. He went on to say that he had told her often before but he wanted to tell her again how much she meant to him. 'You have made all the difference in my life,' he said. 'No man ever had a wife like you. Every year I have been married to you I love you more. I thank you for your affection and love and sympathy. G.o.d bless you, my dearest, we shall soon be together again.'

I found this letter in an embroidered pocket-book. It was the pocket-book my mother had worked for him as a young girl and sent to him in America. He had always kept it, and in it he kept two poems she had written him. My mother added this letter to it.

The house at Ealing had a somewhat ghoulish character these days. It was full of whispering relativesGranny B, uncles, the wives of uncles, courtesy aunts, Grannie's old lady croniesthey all half-whispered, sighed, shook their heads. And everyone wore heavy blackI too had black clothes. I must say my mourning clothes were about the only consolation to me at that time. I felt important, worth-while and part of things when I put on my black clothes.

Then there were more whispers of 'Really, Clara must must be made to rouse herself.' At intervals Grannie would say, 'Wouldn't you like to read this letter I've had from Mr B. or Mrs C.? Such a beautiful letter of condolence, really I think you would feel be made to rouse herself.' At intervals Grannie would say, 'Wouldn't you like to read this letter I've had from Mr B. or Mrs C.? Such a beautiful letter of condolence, really I think you would feel most most touched by it.' My mother would say fiercely, 'I don't want to see it'. touched by it.' My mother would say fiercely, 'I don't want to see it'.

She opened her own letters but threw them aside almost immediately. Only one she treated differently. 'Is that from Ca.s.sie?' Grannie asked. 'Yes, Auntie, it's from Ca.s.sie.' She folded it up and put it in her bag. 'She understands,' she said, and she went out of the room.

Ca.s.sie was my American G.o.dmother, Mrs Sullivan. I had probably seen her as a small child, but I only remember her when she came to London about a year later. She was a wonderful person: a little woman with white hair and the gayest, sweetest face imaginable, bursting with vitality, with a strange joyousness about heryet she had had one of the saddest lives possible. Her husband, to whom she was devoted, had died quite young. She had had two lovely boys, and they too had died, paralysed. 'Some nursemaid,' said my grandmother, 'must have let them sit on the damp gra.s.s.' Really, I suppose, it must have been a case of polionot recognised at that timewhich was always called rheumatic fever, the result of damp, damp, and which resulted in crippling paralysis. Anyway, her two children had died. One of her grown-up nephews, who was staying in the same house, also had suffered from paralysis and remained crippled for life. Yet, in spite of her losses, in spite of everything, Aunt Ca.s.sie was gay, bright, and full of more human sympathy than anyone I have ever known. She was the one person mother longed to see at that time. 'She understands, it is no good making consoling phrases at people.' and which resulted in crippling paralysis. Anyway, her two children had died. One of her grown-up nephews, who was staying in the same house, also had suffered from paralysis and remained crippled for life. Yet, in spite of her losses, in spite of everything, Aunt Ca.s.sie was gay, bright, and full of more human sympathy than anyone I have ever known. She was the one person mother longed to see at that time. 'She understands, it is no good making consoling phrases at people.'

I remember that I was used as an emissary by the family, that somebodyperhaps Grannie, or perhaps one of my auntstook me aside and murmured that I must be my mamma's little comforter, that I must go into the room where my mother was lying and point out to her that father was happy now, that he was in Heaven, that he was at peace. I was willingit was what I believed myself, what surely everyone believed. I went in, a little timid, with the vague feeling which children have when they are doing what they have been told told is right, and what they is right, and what they know know is right, but which they feel may, somehow or other, for a reason that they don't know, be is right, but which they feel may, somehow or other, for a reason that they don't know, be wrong. wrong. I went timidly up to mother and touched her. 'Mummy, father is at peace now. He is happy. You wouldn't want him back, would you?' I went timidly up to mother and touched her. 'Mummy, father is at peace now. He is happy. You wouldn't want him back, would you?'

Suddenly my mother reared up in bed, with a violent gesture that startled me into jumping back. 'Yes, I would,' she cried in a low voice. 'Yes, I would. I would do anything in the world to have him backanything, anything at all. I'd force him to come back, if I could. I want him, I want him back here, here, now, in this world with now, in this world with me.' me.'

I shrank away, rather frightened. My mother said quickly, 'It's all right, darling. It's all right. It's just that I am notnot very well at present. Thank you for coming.' And she kissed me and I went away consoled.

PART III

GROWING UP

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