Mr Altham found he got on very nicely without these gymnastics, but then he played golf after lunch. It was no use playing tricks with your health if it was already excellent: you might as well poke about in the works of a punctual watch. He had already had a pretty sharp lesson on this score, over the consumption of sour milk. It had made him exceedingly unwell, and he had sliced his drive for a fortnight afterwards. Just now he weaned his mind from the thoughts of kidneys, and gave it in equitable halves to marmalade and his wife’s conversation. To enjoy either, required silence on his part.
‘She went to a meeting yesterday,’ said Mrs Altham, ‘so Mrs Turner told me, and said that though she had the success of the cause so deeply at heart as ever, she would not be able to take any active part in it. That is a very common form of sympathy. I suppose, from what one knows of Mrs Ames, we might have expected something of the sort. Do you remember her foolish scheme of asking wives without husbands, and husbands without wives? I warned you at the time, Henry, not to take any notice of it, because I was sure it would come to nothing, and I think I may say I am justified. I don’t know what YOU think.’
Mr Altham, by a happy coincidence, had finished masticating his last piece of toast at this moment, and was at liberty to reply.
‘I do not think anything about it at present,’ said he. ‘I daresay you are quite right, but why?’
Mrs Altham gave a little shrill laugh. The sprightliness at breakfast produced by this early walk and the exercises was very marked.
‘I declare,’ she said, ‘that I had forgotten to tell you. Mrs Ames wrote to ask us both to dine on Saturday. I had quite forgotten! There is something in the air before breakfast that makes one forgetful of trifles. It says so in the pamphlet. Worries and household cares vanish, and it becomes a joy to be alive. I don’t think we have any engagement. Pray do not have a third cup of tea, Henry. Tannin combines the effects of stimulants and narcotics. A cup of hot water, now - you will never regret it. Let me see! Yes, dinner at the Ameses on Saturday, and she isn’t a Suffragette any longer. As I said, one might have guessed. I daresay her husband gave her a good talking-to, after the night when she threw the water at the policeman. I should not wonder if there was madness in the family. I think I heard that Sir James’ mother was very queer before she died!’
‘She lived till ninety,’ remarked Mr Altham.
‘That is often the case with deranged people,’ said Mrs Altham. ‘Lunatics are notoriously long-lived. There is no strain on the brain.’
‘And she wasn’t any relation of Mrs Ames,’ continued Henry. ‘Mrs Ames is related to the Westbournes. She has no more to do with Sir James’ mother than I have to do with yours. I will take tea, my dear, not hot water.’
‘You want to catch me up, Henry,’ said she, ‘and prove I am wrong somehow. I was only saying that very likely there is madness in Mrs Ames’ family, and I was going to add that I hoped it would not come out in her. But you must allow that she has been very flighty. You would have thought that an elderly woman like that could make up her mind once and for all about things, before she made an exhibition of herself. She thinks she is like some royal person who goes and opens a bazaar, and then has nothing more to do with it, but hurries away to Leeds or somewhere to unveil a memorial. She thinks it is sufficient for her to help at the beginning, and get all the advertisement, and then drop it all like cold potatoes.’
‘Hot,’ said Henry.
‘Hot or cold: that is just like her. She plays hot and cold. One day she is a Suffragette and the next day she isn’t. As likely as not she will be a vegetarian on Saturday, and we shall be served with cabbages.’
‘Major Ames went over to Sir James’ to shoot, - she wasn’t asked,’ said Henry, reverting to a previous topic.
‘There you are!’ exclaimed Mrs Altham. ‘That will account for her abandoning this husband and wife theory. I am sure she did not like that, she being Sir James’ relative and not being asked. But I never could quite understand what the relationship is, though I daresay Mrs Ames can make it out. There are people who say they are cousins, because a grandmother’s niece married the other grandmother’s nephew. We can all be descendants of Queen Elizabeth or of Charles the Second at that rate.’
‘It would be easier to be a descendant of Charles the Second than of Queen Elizabeth, my dear,’ remarked Henry.
Mrs Altham pursed her lips up for a moment.
‘I do not think we need enter into that,’ she said. ‘I was asking you if you wished to accept Mrs Ames’ invitation for Saturday. She says she expects Sir James and his wife, so perhaps we shall hear some more about this wonderful relationship, and Dr Evans and his wife and one or two others. To my mind that looks rather as if the husband and wife plan was not quite what she expected it would be. And giving up all active part in the Suffragette movement, too! But I daresay she feels her age, though goodness only knows what it is. However, it is clearly going to be a grand party on Saturday, and the waiter from the Crown will be there to help Parker, going round and pouring a little foam into everybody’s glass. I do not know where Major Ames gets his champagne from, but I never get anything but foam. But I am sure I do not wish to be unkind, and certainly poor Major Ames does not look well. I daresay he has worries we do not know of, and, of course, there is no reason why he should speak of them to us. The Evanses, too! I never satisfied myself as to why they went away in October. They must have been away nearly three weeks, for it was only yesterday that I saw them driving down from the station, with so much luggage on the top of the cab I wonder it did not fall over.’
‘It can’t have been yesterday, my dear,’ said Mr Altham, ‘because you spoke of it to me two days ago.’
‘You shall have it your own way, Henry,’ said she. ‘I am quite willing that you should think it was a twelvemonth ago, if you choose. But I suppose you will not dispute that they went away in October, which is a very odd time to take for a holiday. Of course, Mrs Evans stopped here all August, or so she says, and she might answer that she wanted a little change of air. But for my part, I think there must have been something more, though, as I say, I cannot guess what it is. Luckily, it is no concern of mine, and I need not worry my head about it. But I have always thought Mrs Evans looked far from strong, and it seems odd that a doctor’s wife should not be more robust, when she has all his laboratory to choose from.’
Henry lit his cigarette, and strolled to the window. The lawn was still white with the unmelted hoar frost, and the gardener was busy in the beds, putting things tidy for the winter. This consisted in plucking up anything of vegetable origin and carrying it off in a wheelbarrow. Thus the beds were ready to receive the first bedded-out plants next May.
‘I remember, my dear,’ said Henry, ‘that you once thought that there had been some - some understanding between Mrs Evans and Major Ames, and some misunderstanding between Major Ames and Dr Evans.’
Mrs Altham brought her eyebrows together and put her finger on her forehead.
‘I seem to remember some ridiculous story of yours, Henry, about a bunch of chrysanthemums in the road outside Dr Evans’ house, how you had seen Major Ames take them in, and there they were afterwards in the road. I seem to remember your being so much excited about it that I made a point of going round to Mrs Ames’ next day with -with a book. I think that at the time - correct me if I am wrong - I convinced you that there was nothing whatever in it … Or have you seen or heard anything since that makes you think differently?’ she added rather more briskly.
‘No, my dear, nothing whatever,’ said he.
Mrs Altham got up.
‘I am glad, very glad,’ she said. ‘At any rate, we know in Riseborough that we are safe from that sort of thing. I declare when I went to London last week, I hardly slept with thinking of the dreadful things that might be going on round me. Dear me, it is nearly ten o’clock. I do not know whether the hours or the days go quickest! It is always half an hour later than I expect it to be, and here we are in Novem
ber already. I shall rest for an hour, Henry, and I will write to Mrs Ames before lunch saying we shall be delighted to come on Saturday. November the twelfth, too! Nearly half November will be gone by then, and that leaves us but six weeks to Christmas, and it will be as much as we shall be able to manage to get through all that has to be done before that. But with these Swedish exercises, I declare I feel younger every day, and more able to cope with everything. You should take to them, Henry; by eleven o’clock they are finished and you have had your rest. With a little management you would find time for everything.’
Henry sat over the dining-room fire, considering this. As has been mentioned, he did not want to make any change in his excellent health, but, on the other hand, a little rest after breakfast would be pleasant, and when that was over it would be almost time to go to the club.
But it was impossible to settle a question like that offhand. After he had read the paper he would think about it.
Mrs Altham came hurrying back into the room.
‘Henry, you would never guess what I have seen!’ she said. ‘I glanced out of the window in the hall on the way to my room, and there was Mrs Ames wobbling about the road on a bicycle. Major Ames was holding it upright with both hands, and it looked to be as much as he could manage. Yet she has no time for Suffragettes! I should be sorry if I thought I should ever make such a hollow excuse as that. And at her age, too! I had no time to call you, but I dare say she will be back soon if you care to watch. The window seat in the hall is quite comfortable.’
Henry took his paper there.
The Bloomsbury Group: a new library of books from the early twentieth-century chosen by readers, for readers
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RACHEL FERGUSON
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As growing up in pre-war London looms large in the lives of the Carne sisters, Deirdre, Katrine and young Sheil still cannot resist making up stories as they have done since childhood; from their talking nursery toys to their fulsomely-imagined friendship with real high-court Judge Toddington. But when Deirdre meets the judge’s real-life wife at a charity bazaar the sisters are forced to confront the subject of their imaginings. Will the sisters cast off the fantasies of childhood forever? Will Toddy and his wife, Lady Mildred, accept these charmingly eccentric girls? And when fancy and reality collide, who can tell whether Judge Toddington truly wears lavender silk pyjamas or whether the Brontës did indeed go to Woolworths?
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‘The family at its most eccentric and bohemian – a pure concoction of wonderful invention. What an extraordinary meeting I have just had with the Carnes’
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*
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Six year-old Joe knows a unicorn when he sees one. His neighbour Mr Kandinsky has told him all about them, and there isn’t anything in the world that this wise tailor doesn’t know. So when Joe sees a little white goat in a Whitechapel market he has to have him. He knows it’s just a matter of time before the tiny bump on the unicorn’s head becomes the magic horn to grant his every wish.
For in the embattled working-class community of 1950s East End London, there are plenty of people in need of good fortune. The only thing Mr Kandinsky wants is a steam press for his shop; his assistant Shmule, a wrestler, just needs to buy a ring for his girl; and all Joe and his mother wish for, more than anything, is to join his father in Africa. But maybe, just maybe, Joe’s unicorn can sprinkle enough luck on all his friends for their humble dreams to come true.
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‘Wolf Mankowitz possessed the now largely vanished gift of being able to write about romance and sentiment without being ever sentimental’
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‘A small miracle. He writes of the teeming streets round the Whitechapel Road with such glowing warmth and love that they come triumphantly alive. Wolf Mankowitz, you are not a star. You are a planet’
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*
ISBN: 978 1 4088 0294 6 · PAPERBACK · £7.99
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Edith and Bruce Ottley live in a very new, very small, very white flat in Knightsbridge. On the surface they are like every other respectable couple in Edwardian London and that is precisely why Edith is beginning to feel a little bored. Excitement comes in the form of the dazzling and glamorous Hyacinth Verney, who doesn’t understand why Edith is married to one of the greatest bores in society. But then, Hyacinth doesn’t really understand any of the courtships, jealousies and love affairs of their coterie: why the dashing Cecil Reeve insists on being so elusive, why her loyal friend Anne is so stubbornly content with being a spinster, and why she just can’t seem to take her mind off love…
A wry, sparklingly observed comedy of manners, Love’s Shadow brims with the wit that so endeared Ada Leverson to Oscar Wilde, who called her the wittiest woman in the world.
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ISBN: 978 1 4088 0382 0 · PAPERBACK · £7.99
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When, on the spur of a moment, Norman Huntley and his friend Henry invent an eighty-three year-old woman called Miss Hargreaves, they are inspired to post a letter to their new fictional friend. It is only meant to be a silly, harmless game – until she arrives on their doorstep, complete with her cockatoo, her harp and – last but not least – her bath. She is, to Norman’s utter disbelief, exactly as he had imagined her: eccentric and endlessly astounding. He hadn’t imagined, however, how much havoc an imaginary octogenarian could wreak in his sleepy Buckinghamshire home town, Cornford.
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Vivacious, young Hester Christie tries to run her home like clockwork, as would befit the wife of British Army officer, Tim Christie. Left alone for months at a time whilst her husband is with his regiment, Mrs Tim resolves to keep a diary of events large and small in her family life.
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NEWS FROM THE HOME FRONT 1939–1942
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