I was much impressed and promised to follow her advice, and I have done sothough it has not presented much difficulty, my stomach being definitely a servile one.
III
When my mother had gone abroad with Madge to the South of France after my father"s death, I remained at Ashfield under the tranquil eye of Jane for three weeks by myself. It was then that I discovered a new sport and new friends.
Roller-skating on the pier was a pastime much in vogue. The surface of the pier was extremely rough, and you fell down a good deal, but it was great fun. There was a kind of concert-room at the end of the pier, not used in winter of course, and this was opened as a kind of indoor rink. It was also possible to skate at what was grandly called the a.s.sembly Rooms, or the Bath Saloons, where the big dances took place. This was much more high-cla.s.s, but most of us preferred the pier. You had your own skates and you paid twopence for admission, and once on the pier you skated! The Huxleys could not join me in this sport because they were engaged with their governess during the morning, and the same held for Audrey. The people I used to meet there were the Lucys. Although grown up, they had been very kind to me, knowing that I was alone at Ashfield because the doctor had ordered my mother abroad for change and rest.
Although I felt rather grand on my own, one could get weary of that feeling. I enjoyed ordering the mealsor thinking I was ordering the meals. Actually we always had for lunch exactly what Jane had made up her mind we were going to have beforehand, but she certainly put up a good show of considering my wildest suggestions. "Could we have roast duck and meringues?" I would ask and Jane would say yes, but she was not sure about the ordering of the duck, and that perhaps meringuesthere were no whites of egg at the moment, perhaps we had better wait until some day when we had used the yolks for something else; so that in the end we had what was already sitting in the larder. But dear Jane was very tactful. She always called me Miss Agatha and allowed me to feel that I was in an important position.
It was then that the Lucys suggested that I should come down and skate with them on the pier. They more or less taught me to stand up on my skates, and I loved it. They were, I think, one of the nicest families I have ever known. They came from Warwickshire, and the family"s beautiful house, Charlecote, had belonged to Berkeley Lucy"s uncle. He always thought that it ought to have come to him but instead of that it had gone to his uncle"s daughter, her husband taking the name of Fairfax-Lucy. I think the whole family felt very sad that Charlecote was not theirs, though they never said anything about it, except amongst themselves. The oldest daughter, Blanche, was an extraordinarily handsome girlshe was a little older than my sister and had been married before her. The eldest son, Reggie, was in the army but the second son was at homeabout my brother"s ageand the next two daughters, Marguerite and Muriel, known to all as Margie and Noonie, were also grown-up. They had rather slurred lazy voices that I found very attractive. Time as such meant nothing to them.
After skating for some time, Noonie would look at her watch and say, "Well, did you ever, look at the time now. It"s half-past one already."
"Oh dear," I said. "It will take me twenty minutes at least to walk home."
"Oh you"d better not go home, Aggie. You come home with us and have lunch. We can ring up Ashfield."
So I would go home with them, and we would arrive about half-past two to be greeted by Sam the dog"Body like a barrel, breath like a drainpipe," as Noonie used to describe himand somewhere there would be some kind of meal being kept hot and we would have it. Then they would say it was a pity to go home yet, Aggie, and we would go into their school-room and play the piano and have a sing-song. Sometimes we went on expeditions to the Moor. We would agree to meet at Torre station and take a certain train. The Lucys were always late, and we always missed the train. They missed trains, they missed trams, they missed everything, but nothing rattled them. "Oh well," they would say, "what does it matter? There"ll be another one by and by. It"s never any good worrying, worrying, is it?" It was a delightful atmosphere. is it?" It was a delightful atmosphere.
The high spots in my life were Madge"s visits. She came down every August. Jimmy came with her for a few days, then he had to get back to business, but Madge stayed on to about the end of September, and Jack with her.
Jack, of course, was a never-ending source of enjoyment to me. He was a rosy-cheeked golden-haired little boy, looking good enough to eat, and indeed we sometimes called him "le pet.i.t brioche". He had a most uninhibited nature, and did not know what silence was. There was no question of bringing Jack out and making him talkthe difficulty was to hush him down. He had a fiery temper and used to do what we called "blow up" he would first get very red in the face, then purple, then hold his breath, till you really thought he was going to burst, then the storm would happen!
He had a succession of Nannies, all with their own peculiarities. There was one particularly cross one, I remember. She was old, with a great deal of untidy grey hair. She had much experience, and was about the only person who could really daunt Jack when he was on the warpath. One day he had been very obstreperous, shouting out "You idiot, you idiot, you idiot" for no reason whatever, rushing to each person in turn. Nannie finally reproved him, telling him that if he said it any more he would be punished. "I can tell you what I"m going to do," said Jack. "When I die I shall go to Heaven and I shall go straight up to G.o.d and I shall say "You idiot, you idiot, you idiot"." He paused, breathless, to see what this blasphemy would bring forth. Nannie put down her work, looked over her spectacles at him, and said without much interest: "And do you suppose that the Almighty is going to take any notice of what a naughty little boy like you says?" Jack was completely deflated.
Nannie was succeeded by a young girl called Isabel. She for some reason was much addicted to throwing things out of the window. "Oh drat these scissors," she would suddenly murmur, and fling them out on to the gra.s.s. Jack, on occasions, attempted to help her. "Shall I throw it out of the window, Isabel?" he would ask, with great interest. Like all children, he adored my mother. He would come into her bed early in the morning and I would hear them through the wall of my room. Sometimes they were discussing life, and sometimes my mother would be telling him a storya kind of serial went on, all about mother"s thumbs. One of them was called Betsy Jane and the other Sary Anne. One of them was good, the other was naughty, and the things they did and said kept Jack in a gurgle of laughter the whole time. He always tried to join in conversation. One day when the Vicar came to lunch there was a momentary pause. Jack suddenly piped up. "I know a very funny story about a bishop," he said. He was hastily hushed by his relations, who never knew what what Jack might come out with that he had overheard. Jack might come out with that he had overheard.
Christmas we used to spend in Cheshire, going up to the Watts". Jimmy usually got his yearly holiday about then, and he and Madge used to go to St. Moritz for three weeks. He was a very good skater, and so it was the kind of holiday he liked most. Mother and I used to go up to Cheadle, and since their newly-built house, called Manor Lodge, was not ready yet, we spent Christmas at Abney Hall, with the old Wattses and their four children and Jack. It was a wonderful house to have Christmas in if you were a child. Not only was it enormous Victorian Gothic, with quant.i.ties of rooms, pa.s.sages, unexpected steps, back staircases, front staircases, alcoves, nicheseverything in the world that a child could wantbut it also had three different pianos that you could play, as well as an organ. All it lacked was the light of day; it was remarkably dark, except for the big drawing-room with its green satin walls and its big windows.
Nan Watts and I were fast friends by now. We were not only friends but drinking companionswe both liked the same drink, cream, cream, ordinary plain, neat cream. Although I had consumed an enormous amount of Devonshire cream since I lived in Devonshire, raw cream was really more of a treat. When Nan stayed with me at Torquay, we used to visit one of the dairies in the town, where we would have a gla.s.s of half milk and half cream. When I stayed with her at Abney we used to go down to the home farm and drink cream by the half-pint. We continued these drinking bouts all through our lives, and I still remember buying our cartons of cream in Sunningdale and coming up to the golf course and sitting outside the club house waiting for our respective husbands to finish their rounds of golf, each drinking our pinta cream. ordinary plain, neat cream. Although I had consumed an enormous amount of Devonshire cream since I lived in Devonshire, raw cream was really more of a treat. When Nan stayed with me at Torquay, we used to visit one of the dairies in the town, where we would have a gla.s.s of half milk and half cream. When I stayed with her at Abney we used to go down to the home farm and drink cream by the half-pint. We continued these drinking bouts all through our lives, and I still remember buying our cartons of cream in Sunningdale and coming up to the golf course and sitting outside the club house waiting for our respective husbands to finish their rounds of golf, each drinking our pinta cream.
Abney was a glutton"s paradise. Mrs Watts had what was called her store-room off the hall. It was not like Grannie"s store-room, a kind of securely-locked treasure house from which things were taken out. There was free access to it, and all round the walls were shelves covered with every kind of dainty. One side was entirely chocolates, boxes of them, all different, chocolate creams in labelled boxes...There were biscuits, gingerbread, preserved fruits, jams and so on.
Christmas was the supreme Festival, something never to be forgotten. Christmas stockings in bed. Breakfast, when everyone had a separate chair heaped with presents. Then a rush to church and back to continue present opening. At two o"clock Christmas Dinner, the blinds drawn down and glittering ornaments and lights. First, oyster soup (not relished by me), turbot, then boiled turkey, roast turkey, and a large roast sirloin of beef. This was followed by plum pudding, mince pies, and a trifle full of sixpences, pigs, rings, bachelors" b.u.t.tons and all the rest of it. After that, again, innumerable kinds of dessert. In a story I once wrote, The Affair of the Christmas Pudding, The Affair of the Christmas Pudding, I have described just such a feast. It is one of those things that I am sure will never be seen again in this generation; indeed I doubt nowadays if anyone"s digestion would stand it. However, I have described just such a feast. It is one of those things that I am sure will never be seen again in this generation; indeed I doubt nowadays if anyone"s digestion would stand it. However, our our digestions stood it quite well then. digestions stood it quite well then.
I usually had to vie in eating prowess with Humphrey Watts, the Watts son next to James in age. I suppose he must have been twenty-one or twenty-two to my twelve or thirteen. He was a very handsome young man, as well as being a good actor and a wonderful entertainer and teller of stories. Good as I always was at falling in love with people, I don"t think I fell in love with him, though it is amazing to me that I should not not have done so. I suppose I was still at the stage where my love affairs had to be romantically impossibleconcerned with public characters, such as the Bishop of London and King Alfonso of Spain, and of course with various actors. I know I fell deeply in love with Henry Ainley when I saw him in have done so. I suppose I was still at the stage where my love affairs had to be romantically impossibleconcerned with public characters, such as the Bishop of London and King Alfonso of Spain, and of course with various actors. I know I fell deeply in love with Henry Ainley when I saw him in The Bondman, The Bondman, and I must have been just getting ripe for the K.O.W.s (Keen on Wallers), who were all to a girl in love with Lewis Waller in and I must have been just getting ripe for the K.O.W.s (Keen on Wallers), who were all to a girl in love with Lewis Waller in Monsieur Beaucaire. Monsieur Beaucaire.
Humphrey and I ate solidly through the Christmas Dinner. He scored over me in oyster soup, but otherwise we were neck and neck. We both first had roast turkey, then boiled turkey, and finally four or five slashing slices of sirloin of beef. It is possible that our elders confined themselves to only one kind of turkey for this course, but as far as I remember old Mr Watts certainly had beef as well as turkey. We then ate plum pudding and mince pies and trifleI rather sparingly of trifle, because I didn"t like the taste of wine. After that there were the crackers, the grapes, the oranges, the Elvas plums, the Carlsbad plums, and the preserved fruits. Finally, during the afternoon, various handfuls of chocolates were fetched from the store-room to suit our taste. Do I remember being sick the next day? Having bilious attacks? No, never. The only bilious attacks I ever remember were those that seized me after eating unripe apples in September. I ate unripe apples practically every day, but occasionally I must have overdone it.
What I do remember was when I was about six or seven years old and had eaten mushrooms. I woke up with a pain about eleven o"clock in the evening, and came rushing down to the drawing-room, where mother and father were entertaining a party of people, and announced dramatically: "I am going to die! I am poisoned by mushrooms!" Mother rapidly soothed me and administered a dose of ipecacuanha winealways kept in the medicine cupboard in those daysand a.s.sured me that I was not due to die this time.
At any rate I never remember being ill at Christmas. Nan Watts was just the same as I was; she had a splendid stomach. In fact, really, when I remember those days, everyone seemed to have a pretty good stomach. I suppose people had gastric and duodenal ulcers and had to be careful, but I cannot remember anybody living on a diet of fish and milk. A coa.r.s.e and gluttonous age? Yes, but one of great zest and enjoyment. Considering the amount that I ate in my youth (for I was always hungry) I cannot imagine how I managed to remain so thina scrawny chicken indeed.
After the pleasurable inertia of Christmas afternoonpleasurable, that is, for the elders: the younger ones read books, looked at their presents, ate more chocolates, and so onthere was a terrific tea, with a great iced Christmas cake as well as everything else, and finally a supper of cold turkey and hot mince pies. About nine o"clock there was the Christmas Tree, with more presents hanging on it. A splendid day, and one to be remembered till next year, when Christmas came again.
I stayed at Abney with my mother at other times of year, and always loved it. There was a tunnel in the garden, underneath the drive, which I found useful in whatever historical romance or drama I was enacting at the moment. I would strut about, muttering to myself and gesticulating. I daresay the gardeners thought that I was mental, but I was only getting into the spirit of the part. It never occurred to me to write anything downand I was quite indifferent to what any gardeners thought. I occasionally walk about nowadays muttering to myselftrying to get some chapter that won"t "go" to come right.
My creative abilities were also engaged by embroidery of sofa cushions. Cushions were most prevalent at that time, and embroidered cushion-covers always welcome. I went in for an enormous bout of embroidery in the autumn months. To begin with I used to buy transfers, iron them off on the squares of satin, and start embroidering them in silks. Disliking the transfers in the end as being all the same, I then began to take flower pictures off china. We had some big Berlin and Dresden vases with beautiful bunches of flowers on them, and I used to trace over these, draw them out, and then try to copy the colours as closely as possible. Granny B. was very pleased when she heard I was doing this; she had spent so much of her life in embroidery that she was glad to think a grand-daughter took after her in that way. I did not reach her heights of fine embroidery, however; I never actually embroidered landscapes and figures, as she did. I have two of her fire screens now, one of a shepherdess, the other of a shepherd and shepherdess together under a tree, writing or drawing a heart on the bark of it, which is exquisitely done. How satisfying it must have been for the great ladies in the days of the Bayeux Tapestry, in the long winter months.
Mr Watts, Jimmy"s father, was a person who always made me feel unaccountably shy. He used to call me "dream-child", which made me wriggle in agonised embarra.s.sment. "What is our dream-child thinking of?" he used to say. I would go purple in the face. He used to make me play and sing sentimental songs to him, too. I could read music quite well, so he would often take me to the piano and I would sing his favourite songs. I didn"t like them much, but at least it was preferable to his conversation. He was an artistic man, and painted landscapes of moors and sunsets. He was also a great collector of furniture, particularly old oak. In addition he and his friend Fletcher Moss took good photographs, and published several books of photographs of famous houses. I wish I had not been so stupidly shy, but I was of course at the age when one is particularly self-conscious.
I much preferred Mrs Watts, who was brisk, cheerful, and completely factual. Nan, who was two years older than I was, went in for being an "enfant terrible", and took a special pleasure in shouting, being rude, and using swear words. It upset Mrs Watts when her daughter fired off and took a special pleasure in shouting, being rude, and using swear words. It upset Mrs Watts when her daughter fired off d.a.m.ns d.a.m.ns and and blasts. blasts. She also disliked it when Nan used to turn on her and say: "Oh don"t be such She also disliked it when Nan used to turn on her and say: "Oh don"t be such a fool, a fool, Mother!" It was not the sort of thing that she had ever envisaged a daughter of hers saying to her, but the world was just entering into an age of plain speaking. Nan revelled in the role she was playing, though really, I believe, she was quite fond of her mother. Ah well, most mothers have to go through a period in which their daughters put them through the mill in one way or another. Mother!" It was not the sort of thing that she had ever envisaged a daughter of hers saying to her, but the world was just entering into an age of plain speaking. Nan revelled in the role she was playing, though really, I believe, she was quite fond of her mother. Ah well, most mothers have to go through a period in which their daughters put them through the mill in one way or another.
On Boxing Day we were always taken to the pantomime in Manchesterand very good pantomimes they were. We would come back in the train singing all the songs, the Watts rendering the comedian"s songs in broad Lancashire. I remember us all bawling out: "I was born on a Friday, I was born on a Friday, I was born on a Friday when (crescendo!) (crescendo!) my mother wasn"t at "ome!" my mother wasn"t at "ome!" Also: " Also: "Watching the trains coom in, watching the trains go out, when we"d watched all the trains coom in, we watched the trains go OUT." The supreme favourite was sung by Humphrey as a melancholy solo: " The supreme favourite was sung by Humphrey as a melancholy solo: "The window, The window, I"ve pushed it through the window. I have no pain, dear Mother now, I"ve pushed it through the window."
The Manchester pantomime was not the earliest I was taken to. The first I ever saw was at Drury Lane, where I was taken by Grannie. Dan Leno was Mother Goose. I can still remember that pantomime. I dreamt of Dan Leno for weeks afterwardsI thought he was the most wonderful person I had ever seen. And there was an exciting incident that night. The two little Royal princes were up in the Royal Box. Prince Eddy, as one spoke of him colloquially, dropped his programme and opera gla.s.ses over the edge of the box. They fell in the stalls quite near where we were sitting, and, oh delight, not the Equerry but Prince Eddy himself himself came down to retrieve them, apologising very politely, saying that he did hope they hadn"t hurt anyone. came down to retrieve them, apologising very politely, saying that he did hope they hadn"t hurt anyone.
I went to sleep that night indulging in the fantasy that one day I would marry Prince Eddy. Possibly I could save his life from drowning first...A grateful Queen would give her Royal Consent. Or perhaps there would be an accidenthe would be bleeding to death, I would give a blood transfusion. I would be created a Countesslike the Countess Torbyand there would be a Morganatic Marriage. Even for six years old, however, such a fantasy was a little too fantastic to last.
My nephew Jack once arranged a very good Royal alliance of his own at about the age of four. "Supposing, Mummy," he said, "you were to marry King Edward. I should become Royalty." My sister said there was the Queen to be thought of, and a little matter of Jack"s own father. Jack rearranged matters. "Supposing the Queen died, and supposing that Daddy"he paused to put it tactfully"supposing that Daddyerwasn"t there, and then supposing that King Edward was tojust to see you..." see you..." Here he stopped, leaving it to the imagination. Obviously King Edward was going to be struck all of a heap, and in next to no time Jack was going to be the King"s stepson. Here he stopped, leaving it to the imagination. Obviously King Edward was going to be struck all of a heap, and in next to no time Jack was going to be the King"s stepson.
"I was looking in the prayer-book during the sermon," Jack said to me, about a year later. "I"ve been thinking of marrying you when I am grown up, Ange, but I"ve been looking in the prayer-book and there is a table of things in the middle, and I see that the Lord won"t let me." He sighed. I told him that I was flattered that he should have thought of such a thing.
It is astonishing how you never really change in your predilections. My nephew Jack, from the days when he went out with a nursemaid, was always obsessed by things ecclesiastical. If he disappeared from sight you could usually find him in a church, gazing admiringly at the altar. If he was given coloured plasticine the things he made were always triptychs, crucifixes, or some kind of ecclesiastical adornment. Roman Catholic churches in particular fascinated him. His tastes never changed, and he read more ecclesiastical history than anyone I have ever known. When he was about thirty, he finally entered the Roman Catholic Churcha great blow to my brother-in-law, who was what I can only describe as the perfect example of a "Black Protestant". He would say, in his gentle voice: "I"m not prejudiced, I really am not not prejudiced. It"s just that I can"t help noticing that all Roman Catholics are the most terrible liars. It"s not prejudice, it just prejudiced. It"s just that I can"t help noticing that all Roman Catholics are the most terrible liars. It"s not prejudice, it just is is so." so."
Grannie was a good example of a Black Protestant too, and got much enjoyment out of the wickedness of the Papists. She would lower her voice and say: "All those beautiful girls disappearing into conventsnever seen again." I am sure she was convinced that all priests selected their mistresses from special convents of beautiful girls. I am sure she was convinced that all priests selected their mistresses from special convents of beautiful girls.
The Watts were non-conformist, Methodist I think, which perhaps may have led to this tendency to regard Roman Catholics as representatives of "the Scarlet Woman of Babylon". Where Jack got his pa.s.sion for the Roman Catholic Church I cannot think. He doesn"t seem to have inherited it from anyone in his family, but it was there, present always from his early years. Everybody took a great interest in religion in my young days. Disputes about it were full and colourful, and sometimes heated. One of my nephew"s friends said to him later in life: "I really can"t think, Jack, why you can"t be a cheerful heretic like everyone else, it would be so much more peaceful."
The last thing on earth that Jack could ever imagine being was peaceful. As his nursemaid said, on one occasion, when she had spent some time finding him: "Why Master Jack wants to go into churches, I can"t imagine. It seems such a funny thing for a child to want to do." Personally, I think he must have been a reincarnation of a medieval churchman. He had, as he grew older, what I might call a churchman"s facenot a monk"s face, certainly not a visionary"sthe kind of churchman versed in ecclesiastical practices and able to acquit himself well at the Council of Trentand to be quite sound on the exact number of angels able to dance on the point of a needle.
IV
Bathing was one of the joys of my life, and has remained so almost until my present age; in fact I would still enjoy it as much as ever but for the difficulties attendant on a rheumatic person getting herself into the water, and, even more difficult, out again.
A great social change came when I was about thirteen. Bathing as I first remember it was strictly segregated. There was a special Ladies" Bathing-Cove, a small stony beach, to the left of the Bath Saloons. The beach was a steeply sloping one, and on it there were eight bathing machines in the charge of an ancient man, of somewhat irascible temper, whose non-stop job was to let the machine up and down in the water. You entered your bathing machinea gaily-painted striped affairsaw that both doors were safely bolted, and began to undress with a certain amount of caution, because at any moment the elderly man might decide it was your turn to be let down into the water. At that moment there would be a frantic rocking, and the bathing machine would grind its way slowly over the loose stones, flinging you about from side to side. In fact the action was remarkably similar to that of a Jeep or Land Rover nowadays, when traversing the more rocky parts of the desert.
The bathing machine would stop as suddenly as it had started. You then proceeded with your undressing and got into your bathing-dress. This was an unaesthetic garment, usually made of dark blue or black alpaca, with numerous skirts, flounces and frills, reaching well down below the knees, and over the elbow. Once fully attired, you unbolted the door on the water side. If the old man had been kind to you, the top step was practically level with the water. You descended and there you were, decorously up to your waist. You then proceeded to swim. There was a raft not too far out, to which you could swim and pull yourself up and sit on it. At low tide it was quite near; at high tide it was quite a good swim, and you had it more or less to yourself. Having bathed as long as you liked, which for my part was a good deal longer than any grown-up accompanying me was inclined to sanction, you were signalled to come back to sh.o.r.ebut as they had difficulty in getting at me once I was safely on the raft, and I anyway proceeded to swim in the opposite direction, I usually managed to prolong it to my own pleasure.
There was of course no such thing as sunbathing on the beach. Once you left the water you got into your bathing machine, you were drawn up with the same suddenness with which you had been let down, and finally emerged, blue in the face, shivering all over, with hands and cheeks died away to a state of numbness. This, I may say, never did me any harm, and I was as warm as toast again in about three-quarters of an hour. I then sat on the beach and ate a bun while I listened to exhortations on my bad conduct in not having come out sooner. Grannie, who always had a fine series of cautionary tales, would explain to me how Mrs Fox"s little boy ("such a lovely creature") had gone to his death of pneumonia, entirely from disobeying his elders and staying in the sea too long. Partaking of my currant bun or whatever refreshment I was having, I would reply dutifully, "No, Grannie, I won"t stay in as long next time. But actually, Grannie, the water was really warm." warm."
"Really warm, was it indeed? Then why are you shivering from head to foot? Why are your fingers so blue?"
The advantage of being accompanied by a grown-up person, especially Grannie, was that we would go home in a cab from the Strand, instead of having to walk a mile and a half. The Torbay Yacht Club was stationed on Beacon Terrace, just above the Ladies" Bathing-Cove. Although the beach was properly invisible from the Club windows, the sea around the raft was not, and, according to my father, a good many of the gentlemen spent their time with opera gla.s.ses enjoying the sight of female figures displayed in what they hopefully thought of as almost a state of nudity! I don"t think we can have been s.e.xually very appealing in those shapeless garments.
The Gentlemen"s Bathing-Cove was situated further along the coast. There the gentlemen, in their scanty triangles, could disport themselves as much as they pleased, with no female eye able to observe them from any point whatever. However, times were changing: mixed bathing was being introduced all over England.
The first thing mixed bathing entailed was wearing far more clothing than before. Even French ladies had always bathed in stockings, so that no sinful bare legs could be observed. I have no doubt that, with natural French chic, chic, they managed to cover themselves from their necks to their wrists, and with lovely thin silk stockings outlining their beautiful legs, looked far more sinfully alluring than if they had worn a good old short-skirted British bathing dress of frilled alpaca. I really don"t know why legs were considered so improper: throughout d.i.c.kens there are screams when any lady thinks that her ankles have been observed. The very word was considered daring. One of the first nursery axioms was always uttered if you mentioned those pieces of your anatomy: "Remember, the Queen of Spain has no legs." What does she have instead, Nursie they managed to cover themselves from their necks to their wrists, and with lovely thin silk stockings outlining their beautiful legs, looked far more sinfully alluring than if they had worn a good old short-skirted British bathing dress of frilled alpaca. I really don"t know why legs were considered so improper: throughout d.i.c.kens there are screams when any lady thinks that her ankles have been observed. The very word was considered daring. One of the first nursery axioms was always uttered if you mentioned those pieces of your anatomy: "Remember, the Queen of Spain has no legs." What does she have instead, Nursie ?" Limbs, ?" Limbs, dear, that is what we call them; arms and legs are limbs." dear, that is what we call them; arms and legs are limbs."
All the same, I think it would sound odd to say: "I"ve got a spot coming on one of my limbs, just below the knee."
Which reminds me of a friend of my nephew"s, who described an experience of her own as a little girl. She had been told that her G.o.dfather was coming to see her. Having not heard of such a personage before, she had been thrilled by the notion. That night, at about one a.m., after waking and considering the matter for some time, she spoke into the darkness: "Nanny, I"ve got a G.o.dfather."
"Urmrp." Some indescribable sound answered her.
"Nanny," a little louder, "I"ve got a G.o.dfather." G.o.dfather."
"Yes, dear, yes, very nice."
"But, Nanny, I"ve got a"fortissimo"G.o.dFATHER."
"Yes, yes, turn over, dear, and go to sleep."
"But, Nanny"molto fortissimo"I HAVE HAVE GOT A G.o.dFATHER!" "Well, GOT A G.o.dFATHER!" "Well, rub rub it, dearie, it, dearie, rub rub it!" it!"
Bathing-dresses continued to be very pure practically up to the time I was first married. Though mixed bathing was accepted by then, it was still regarded as dubious by the older ladies and more conservative families. But progress was too strong, even for my mother. We often took to the sea on such beaches as were given over to the mingling of the s.e.xes. It was allowed first on Tor Abbey Sands and Corbin"s Head Beach, which were more or less main town beaches. We did not bathe thereanywaythe beaches were supposed to be too crowded. Then mixed bathing was allowed on the more aristocratic Meadfoot Beach. This was another good twenty minutes away, and therefore made your walk to bathe rather a long one, practically two miles. However, Meadfoot Beach was much more attractive than the Ladies" Bathing-Cove: bigger, wider, with an accessible rock a good way out to which you could swim if you were a strong swimmer. The Ladies" Bathing-Cove remained sacred to segregation, and the men were left in peace in their dashing triangles.
As far as I remember, the men were not particularly anxious to avail themselves of the joys of mixed bathing; they stuck rigidly to their own private preserve. Such of them as arrived at Meadfoot were usually embarra.s.sed by the sight of their sisters" friends in what they still considered a state of near nudity.
It was at first the rule that I should wear stockings when I bathed. I don"t know how French girls kept their stockings on: I was quite unable to do so. Three or four vigorous kicks when swimming, and my stockings were dangling a long way beyond my toes; they were either sucked off altogether or else wrapped round my ankles like fetters by the time I emerged. I think that the French girls one saw bathing in fashion-plates owed their smartness to the fact that they never actually swam, only walked gently into the sea and out again to parade the beach.
A pathetic tale was told of the Council Meeting at which the question of mixed bathing came up for final approval. A very old Councillor, a vehement opponent, finally defeated, quavered out his last plea: "And all I say is, Mr Mayor, if this "ere mixed bathing is carried through, that there will be decent part.i.tions in the bathing machines, "owever low." "owever low."
With Madge bringing down Jack every summer to Torquay, we bathed practically every day. Even if it rained or blew a gale, it seems to me that we still bathed. In fact, on a rough day I enjoyed the sea even more.
Very soon there came the great innovation of trams. One could catch a tram at the bottom of Burton Road and be taken down to the harbour, and from there it was only about twenty minutes" walk to Meadfoot. When Jack was about five, he started to complain. "What about taking a cab from the tram to the beach?" "Certainly not," said my sister, horrified. "We"ve come down all this way in a tram, haven"t we? Now we walk to the beach."
My nephew would sigh and say under his breath, "Mum on the stingy side again!"
In retaliation, as we walked up the hill, which was, bordered on either side with Italianate villas, my nephew, who, at that age, never stopped talking for a moment, would proceed with a kind of Gregorian chant of his own, which consisted of repeating the names of all the houses we pa.s.sed: "Lanka, Pentreave, The Elms, Villa Marguerita, Hartly St. George." As time went on, he added the names of such occupants as he knew, starting with "Lanka, Dr G. Wreford; Pentreave, Dr Quick; Villa Marguerita, Madam Cavallen; The Laurels, don"t know," and so on. Finally, infuriated, Madge or I would tell him to shut up.
"Why?"
"Because we want to talk to each other, and we can"t talk to each other if you are talking the whole time and interrupting us."
"Oh, very well." Jack lapsed into silence. His lips were moving, however, and one could just hear in faint breath: "Lanka, Pentreave, The Priory, Torbay Hall..." Madge and I would look at each other and try to think of something to say.
Jack and I nearly drowned ourselves one summer. It was a rough day; we had not gone as far as Meadfoot, but instead to the Ladies" Bathing-Cove, where Jack was not yet old enough to cause a tremor in female b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He could not swim at that time, or only a few strokes, so I was in the habit of taking him out to the raft on my back. On this particular morning we started off as usual, but it was a curious kind of seaa sort of mixed swell and chopand, with the additional weight on my shoulders, I found it almost impossible to keep my mouth and nose above water. I was swimming, but I couldn"t get any breath into myself. The tide was not far out, so that the raft was quite close, but I was making little progress, and was only able to get a breath about every third stroke.
Suddenly I realised that I could not make it. At any moment now I was going to choke. "Jack," I gasped, "get off and swim to the raft. You"re nearer that than the sh.o.r.e." "Why?" said Jack. "I don"t want to." "Pleasedo" I bubbled. My head went under. Fortunately, though Jack clung to me at first, he got shaken off and was able therefore to proceed under his own steam. We were quite near the raft by then, and he reached it with no difficulty. By that time I was past noticing what anyone was doing. The only feeling in my mind was a great sense of indignation. I had always been told that when you were drowning the whole of your past life came before you, and I had also been told that you heard beautiful music when you were dying. There was no beautiful music, and I couldn"t think about anything in my past life; in fact I could think of nothing at all but how I was going to get some breath into my lungs. Everything went black andandand the next thing I knew was violent bruises and pains as I was flung roughly into a boat. The old Sea-Horse, crotchety and useless as we had always thought him, had had enough sense to notice that somebody was drowning and had come out in the boat allowed him for the purpose. Having thrown me into the boat, he took a few more strokes to the raft and grabbed Jack, who resisted loudly saying, "I don"t want to go in yet. I"ve only just got got here. I want to play on the raft. I won"t come in!" The a.s.sorted boatload reached the sh.o.r.e, and my sister came down the beach laughing heartily and saying, "What here. I want to play on the raft. I won"t come in!" The a.s.sorted boatload reached the sh.o.r.e, and my sister came down the beach laughing heartily and saying, "What were were you doing? What"s all this fuss?" you doing? What"s all this fuss?"
"Your sister nearly drowned herself," said the old man crossly: "Go on, take this child of yours. We"ll lay her out flat, and we"ll see if she needs a bit of punching."
I suppose they gave me a bit of punching, though I don"t think I had quite lost consciousness.
"I can"t see how you knew she was drowning. Why didn"t she shout for help?"
"I keeps an eye. Once you goes down you can"t shout.w.a.ter"s comin" in."
We both thought highly of the old Sea-Horse after that.
The outside world impinged much less than it had in my father"s time. I had my friends and my mother had one or two close friends whom she saw, but there was little social interchange. For one thing mother was very badly off; she had no money to spare for social entertainments, or indeed for paying cab fares to go to luncheons or dinners. She had never been a great walker, and now, with her heart attacks, she got out little, as it was impossible in Torquay to go anywhere without going up or down hill almost immediately. I had bathing in the summer, roller-skating in the winter and ma.s.ses of books to read. There, of course, I was constantly making new discoveries. Mother read me d.i.c.kens aloud at this point and we both enjoyed it.
Reading aloud started with Sir Walter Scott. One of my favourites was The Talisman. The Talisman. I also read I also read Marmion Marmion and and The Lady of the Lake, The Lady of the Lake, but I think that both mother and I were highly pleased when we pa.s.sed from Sir Walter Scott to d.i.c.kens. Mother, impatient as always, did not hesitate to skip when it suited her fancy. "All these descriptions," she would say at various points in Sir Walter Scott. "Of course they are very good, and literary, but one can have too many of them." I think she also cheated by missing out a certain amount of sob-stuff in d.i.c.kens, particularly the bits about Little Nell. but I think that both mother and I were highly pleased when we pa.s.sed from Sir Walter Scott to d.i.c.kens. Mother, impatient as always, did not hesitate to skip when it suited her fancy. "All these descriptions," she would say at various points in Sir Walter Scott. "Of course they are very good, and literary, but one can have too many of them." I think she also cheated by missing out a certain amount of sob-stuff in d.i.c.kens, particularly the bits about Little Nell.
Our first d.i.c.kens was Nicholas Nickleby, Nicholas Nickleby, and my favourite character was the old gentleman who courted Mrs Nickleby by throwing vegetable marrows over the wall. Can this be one of the reasons why I made Hercule Poirot retire to grow vegetable marrows? Who can say? My favourite d.i.c.kens of all was and my favourite character was the old gentleman who courted Mrs Nickleby by throwing vegetable marrows over the wall. Can this be one of the reasons why I made Hercule Poirot retire to grow vegetable marrows? Who can say? My favourite d.i.c.kens of all was Bleak House, Bleak House, and still is. and still is.
Occasionally we would try Thackeray for a change. We got through Vanity Fair Vanity Fair all right, but we stuck on all right, but we stuck on The Newcombes The Newcombes"We ought to like it," said my mother, "everyone says it is his best." My sister"s favourite had been Esmond, Esmond, but that too we found diffuse and difficult; indeed I have never been able to appreciate Thackeray as I should. but that too we found diffuse and difficult; indeed I have never been able to appreciate Thackeray as I should.
For my own reading, the works of Alexandre Dumas in French now entranced me. The Three Musketeers, Twenty Years After, The Three Musketeers, Twenty Years After, and best of all, and best of all, The Count of Monte Christo. The Count of Monte Christo. My favourite was the first volume, My favourite was the first volume, Le Chateau d"If, Le Chateau d"If, but although the other five volumes occasionally had me slightly bewildered the whole colourful pageant of the story was entrancing. I also had a romatic attachment to Maurice Hewlett: but although the other five volumes occasionally had me slightly bewildered the whole colourful pageant of the story was entrancing. I also had a romatic attachment to Maurice Hewlett: The Forest Lovers, The Queen"s Quair, The Forest Lovers, The Queen"s Quair, and and Richard Yea-and-Nay. Richard Yea-and-Nay. Very good historical novels they are, too. Very good historical novels they are, too.
Occasionally my mother would have a sudden idea. I remember one day when I was picking up suitable windfalls from the apple-tree, she arrived like a whirlwind from the house. "Quickly," she said, "we are going to Exeter."
"Going to Exeter," I said surprised. "Why?"
"Because Sir Henry Irving is playing there, in Becket. Becket. He may not live much longer, and you He may not live much longer, and you must must see him. A great actor. We"ve just time to catch the train. I have booked a room at the hotel." see him. A great actor. We"ve just time to catch the train. I have booked a room at the hotel."
We duly went to Exeter, and it was indeed a wonderful performance of Becket Becket which I have never forgotten. which I have never forgotten.
The theatre had never stopped being a regular part of my life. When staying at Ealing, Grannie used to take me to the theatre at least once a week, sometimes twice. We went to all the musical comedies, and she used to buy me the score afterwards. Those scoreshow I enjoyed playing them! At Ealing, the piano was in the drawing-room, and so fortunately I did not annoy anyone by playing several hours on end.
The drawing-room at Ealing was a wonderful period piece. There was practically no room in it to move about. It had a rather splendid thick Turkey carpet on the floor, and every type of brocaded chair; each one of them uncomfortable. It had two, if not three, marquetry china cabinets, a large central candelabra, standard oil lamps, quant.i.ties of small whatnots, occasional tables, and French Empire furniture. The light from the window was blocked by a conservatory, a prestige symbol that was a must, as in all self-respecting Victorian houses. It was a very cold room; the fire was only lit there if we had a party; and n.o.body as a rule went into it except myself. I would light the brackets on the piano, adjust the music-stool, breathe heavily on my fingers, and start off with The Country Girl The Country Girl or or Our Miss Gibbs. Our Miss Gibbs. Sometimes I allotted roles to "the girls", sometimes I was myself singing them, a new and unknown star. Sometimes I allotted roles to "the girls", sometimes I was myself singing them, a new and unknown star.
Taking my scores to Ashfield, I used to play them in the evenings in the school-room, (also an icy cold room in winter). I played and I sang. Mother often used to go to bed early, after a light supper, about eight o"clock. After she had had about two and a half hours of me thumping a piano overhead, and singing at the top of my voice, she could bear it no longer, and used to take a long pole, which served for pushing the windows up and down, and rap frantically on the ceiling with it. Regret-fully I would abandon my piano.
I also invented an operetta of my own called Marjorie. Marjorie. I did not compose it exactly, but I sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of it experimentally in the garden. I had some vague idea that I might really be able to write and compose music one day. I got as far as the libretto, and there I stuck. I can"t remember the whole story now, but it was all slightly tragic, I think. A handsome young man with a glorious tenor voice loved desperately a girl called Marjorie, who equally naturally did not love him in return. In the end he married another girl, but on the day after his wedding a letter arrived from Marjorie in a far country saying that she was dying and had at last realised that she loved him. He left his bride and rushed to her forthwith. She was not quite dead when he arrivedalive enough at any rate to raise herself on one elbow and sing a splendid dying love song. The bride"s father arrived to wreak vengeance for his deserted daughter, but was so affected by the lovers" grief that he joined his baritone to their voices, and one of the most famous trios ever written concluded the opera. I did not compose it exactly, but I sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of it experimentally in the garden. I had some vague idea that I might really be able to write and compose music one day. I got as far as the libretto, and there I stuck. I can"t remember the whole story now, but it was all slightly tragic, I think. A handsome young man with a glorious tenor voice loved desperately a girl called Marjorie, who equally naturally did not love him in return. In the end he married another girl, but on the day after his wedding a letter arrived from Marjorie in a far country saying that she was dying and had at last realised that she loved him. He left his bride and rushed to her forthwith. She was not quite dead when he arrivedalive enough at any rate to raise herself on one elbow and sing a splendid dying love song. The bride"s father arrived to wreak vengeance for his deserted daughter, but was so affected by the lovers" grief that he joined his baritone to their voices, and one of the most famous trios ever written concluded the opera.
I also had a feeling that I might like to write a novel called Agnes. Agnes. I remember even less of that. It had four sisters in it: Queenie, the eldest, golden-haired and beautiful, and then some twins, dark and handsome, finally Agnes, who was plain, shy and (of course) in poor health, lying patiently on a sofa. There must have been more story than this, but it has all gone now. All I can remember is that Agnes"s true worth was recognised at last by some splendid man with a black moustache whom she had loved secretly for many years. I remember even less of that. It had four sisters in it: Queenie, the eldest, golden-haired and beautiful, and then some twins, dark and handsome, finally Agnes, who was plain, shy and (of course) in poor health, lying patiently on a sofa. There must have been more story than this, but it has all gone now. All I can remember is that Agnes"s true worth was recognised at last by some splendid man with a black moustache whom she had loved secretly for many years.
The next of my mother"s sudden ideas was that perhaps, after all, I wasn"t being educated enough, and that I had better have a little schooling. There was a girls" school in Torquay kept by someone called Miss Guyer, and my mother made an arrangement that I should go there two days a week and study certain subjects. I think one was arithmetic, and there was also grammar and composition. I enjoyed arithmetic, as always, and may even have begun algebra there. Grammar I could not understand in the least: I could not see why why certain things were called prepositions or what verbs were supposed to certain things were called prepositions or what verbs were supposed to do, do, and the whole thing was a foreign language to me. I used to plunge happily into composition, but not with real success. The criticism was always the same: my compositions were too fanciful. I was severely criticised for not keeping to the subject. I remember"Autumn"in particular. I started off well, with golden and brown leaves, but suddenly, somehow or other, a and the whole thing was a foreign language to me. I used to plunge happily into composition, but not with real success. The criticism was always the same: my compositions were too fanciful. I was severely criticised for not keeping to the subject. I remember"Autumn"in particular. I started off well, with golden and brown leaves, but suddenly, somehow or other, a pig pig got into itI think it was possibly rooting up acorns in the forest. Anyway, I got interested in the pig, forgot all about autumn, and the composition ended with the riotous adventures of Curlytail the Pig and a terrific Beechnut Party he gave his friends. got into itI think it was possibly rooting up acorns in the forest. Anyway, I got interested in the pig, forgot all about autumn, and the composition ended with the riotous adventures of Curlytail the Pig and a terrific Beechnut Party he gave his friends.
I can picture one teacher thereI can"t recall her name. She was short and spare, and I remember her eager jutting chin. Quite unexpectedly one day (in the middle, I think, of an arithmetic lesson) she suddenly launched forth on a speech on life and religion. "All of you," she said, "every one one of youwill pa.s.s through a time when you will face despair. If you never face despair, you will never have faced, or become, a Christian, or known a Christian life. To be a Christian you must face and accept the life that Christ faced and lived; you must enjoy things as he enjoyed things; be as happy as he was at the marriage at Cana, know the peace and happiness that it means to be in harmony with G.o.d and with G.o.d"s will. But you must also know, as he did, what it means to be alone in the Garden of Gethsemane, to feel that all your friends have forsaken you, that those you love and trust have turned away from you, and that of youwill pa.s.s through a time when you will face despair. If you never face despair, you will never have faced, or become, a Christian, or known a Christian life. To be a Christian you must face and accept the life that Christ faced and lived; you must enjoy things as he enjoyed things; be as happy as he was at the marriage at Cana, know the peace and happiness that it means to be in harmony with G.o.d and with G.o.d"s will. But you must also know, as he did, what it means to be alone in the Garden of Gethsemane, to feel that all your friends have forsaken you, that those you love and trust have turned away from you, and that G.o.d Himself G.o.d Himself has forsaken you. Hold on then to the belief that that is has forsaken you. Hold on then to the belief that that is not not the end. If you love, you will suffer, and if you do not love, you do not know the meaning of a Christian life." the end. If you love, you will suffer, and if you do not love, you do not know the meaning of a Christian life."
She then returned to the problems of compound interest with her usual vigour, but it is odd that those few words, more than any sermon I have ever heard, remained with me, and years later they were to come back to me and give me hope at a time when despair had me in its grip. She was a dynamic figure, and also, I think, a fine fine teacher; I wish I could have been taught by her longer. teacher; I wish I could have been taught by her longer.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had continued with my education. I should, I suppose, have progressed, and I think I should have been entirely caught up in mathematicsa subject which has always fascinated me. If so, my life, would certainly have been very different. I should have been a third or fourth-rate mathematician and gone through life quite happily. I should probably not have written any books. Mathematics and music would have been enough to satisfy me. They would have engaged my attention, and shut out the world of imagination.
On reflection, though, I think that you are what you are going to be. You indulge in the fantasies of, "If so-and-so had happened, I should have done so-and-so", or, "If I had married So-and-so, I suppose I should have had a totally different life." Somehow or other, though, you would always find your way to your own pattern, because I am sure you are are following a pattern: your pattern of your life. You can embellish your pattern, or you can scamp it, but it is following a pattern: your pattern of your life. You can embellish your pattern, or you can scamp it, but it is your your pattern and so long as you are following it you will know harmony, and a mind at ease with itself. pattern and so long as you are following it you will know harmony, and a mind at ease with itself.