Behind the Scenes at the Museum (22 page)
One, two, three
. The curtains in the living-room have been left open and outside I can see the snow falling silently. There are great flakes, like goose feathers, and small, curled ones like swansdown and great flurries as if a flock of stormy petrels had shaken their feathers out. As I watch, the sky fills with clouds of snow feathers from every kind of bird there ever was and even some that only exist in the imagination, like the bluebirds that fly over the rainbow. Most of the Christmas tree needles are on the floor by now but I switch on the tree lights anyway. Then I start spinning the glass balls on the tree. If I work very hard at it I can get them all spinning at the same time. Sometimes they bang together and dislodge glitter which falls in a shower of fairy dust all over me.
HE SUNDAY SCHOOL OUTING TO SCARBOROUGH WAS
going to be a splendid affair. Mrs Mildred Reeves, who was in charge of St Denys’ Sunday School and its annual outings, was marshalling her helpers at the railway station, well ahead of time. Her assistant teacher, Miss Adina Terry, was already waiting at the ticket barrier with Lolly Paton, the friend she had brought along with her for the day. The eager new curate Mr Dobbs was accompanied by his fiancée, Miss Fanshawe, and together they were standing guard over the large wicker hamper which contained the children’s lunch. Nearly all the parents had contributed to the picnic, although unfortunately they had nearly all furnished sweetmeats so that Mrs Reeves and Miss Fanshawe had been making sandwiches (fishpaste and egg) since the early hours.
Mrs Reeves had a piece of paper in her handbag on which she had written down a list of songs to sing on the train and a list of games to play on the beach – three-legged races, team rounders, human croquet and beach cricket. Mrs Reeves was glad of the male presence of Mr Dobbs, not only to help with the rules of cricket which were only hazily sketched in Mrs Reeves’ mind, but also as an influence on the boisterous little boys in the party, some of whom in Mrs Reeves’ opinion did not come from well-disciplined homes. But then, Mrs Reeves reminded herself, was it not part of her Christian duty to foster such qualities in these poor, and rather common, children? ‘Suffer the little children,’ she murmured to herself but her words were smothered by the arrival of the King’s Cross to Aberdeen Express train and Miss Fanshawe had to lay a detaining hand on Mr Dobbs’ arm because he looked as if he was about to jump aboard.
Miss Terry was not quite as well-organized as Mrs Reeves; she had not made any lists at all, but she had brought some stories to read to the children, not the usual improving Bible tales she recounted rather wearily Sunday after Sunday, but a copy of a brand-new book,
Swallows and Amazons
, which her younger brother assured her was a ‘jolly good adventure’. Although, as it turned out, the book would never be opened because instead Lolly Paton gave an animated, impromptu rendering of
Peter Pan
in which she cast all the children as Lost Boys and even managed to persuade the rather stiff Mr Dobbs to enact a lively Captain Hook, although Mrs Reeves flatly refused to play the crocodile and Miss Fanshawe sulked over the bottles of lemonade.
‘I shall go and buy the tickets,’ Mrs Reeves announced. ‘There’s no point in waiting until all the children are here, for there are bound to be latecomers and it will hardly do to miss the train.’
‘Especially when we have had to arrive so very early,’ Miss Terry said gravely and Lolly Paton pinched her in the waist so that they both had to stare hard at the huge florid station clock to stop themselves from laughing. An over-punctual child was already approaching the rendezvous, spotless in white from head to toe and her hair tied up in a baroque confection of ribbons.
‘That’s not the point,’ Nell said, in a fit of irritation. ‘What would they think?’ and she pushed her hair back from her forehead as if she would have liked to erase her mind.
‘What would who think?’ Bunty asked, sitting on the kitchen linoleum, fumbling with the buttons on the straps of her shoes and biting her lip in concentration.
‘Mrs Reeves – the people at your Sunday School, whoever—’ Nell broke off to grab Ted who was stuffing something in his mouth and she had to wrestle with him to extricate a stone. Babs ran a hasty comb through her hair. ‘Can we please just go!’ she said anxiously. There were no ribbons for Babs and Bunty, their pudding-bowl haircuts hung lankly over their ears. Nor were there any white dresses. Babs was in an unbecoming sage-green smock and Bunty’s best frock was a drop-waisted slub brown. ‘The train goes at five past ten,’ Babs said, ‘and it takes a good half-hour to walk to the station—’
‘Specially with Bunty in tow,’ Clifford said glumly. Babs began to wail, ‘And Mrs Reeves asked us to be there by twenty to ten—’
‘It’s twenty-five to now,’ Clifford murmured, staring blankly into the back yard with the air of a condemned man who had begun to accept his fate.
‘Be quiet, the pair of you!’ Nell snapped. ‘The scones will be out in a minute, you – Clifford, Babs, what’s-your-name – get a cloth to put them in.’ Babs pulled a green-and-white check tea-towel from a drawer and tried not to cry.
Nell took the baking tray out of the oven and tipped the pale scones onto the tea-towel. ‘They needed to be in longer,’ she said crossly.
‘No, no – we’ve got to go,’ Babs shouted, unable to squeeze her tears back any longer, and she picked up the cloth, knotting the corners together as she went and then ran out of the door after Clifford, who already had a head start on her. Bunty started to cry because she still hadn’t got one of her shoes done up. Nell bent down and gave her a sharp slap on her calf before fastening up the shoe and Bunty hurtled out of the house after the other two.
‘Come on!’ Babs screamed to her from the front gate, reaching out a hand that barely made contact with Bunty’s fingers before they were up and running, flying up Lowther Street and along Clarence Street. Bunty got a terrible stitch in her side as they clambered over the footbridge across the railway and moaned and hobbled down Grosvenor Terrace into Bootham, Babs screaming at her all the time to keep up. They shot over the Ouse on Scarborough Bridge, a train keeping them company up above. ‘That’s probably our train,’ Babs gasped, almost falling down the metal steps and onto Leeman Road. Babs ran on after Clifford, but Bunty had to stop to get her breath and then limped feebly onto Station Road and just glimpsed Babs’ green frock disappearing within the station portals.
Bunty could feel her thick petticoat sticking to her skin underneath the dress and the hot tears that were pricking her eyes uncomfortably. She was terrified out of her wits at the idea of being left behind and trotted gamely across the station concourse up to the ticket barrier, where the ticket collector stopped her with an imperiously raised hand and eyebrow. The station master had already blown his whistle, and the train, clearly visible on the platform beyond the barrier, had started to move, very slowly, and Bunty stared at it with tragic eyes. Then she spied Clifford, running for his life, and Bunty put her hand over her mouth and said, ‘Oh,’ as she watched her brother sprinting along the platform and yanking open one of the carriage doors before leaping on board and hauling Babs after him – Babs who was screaming Bunty’s name, but whose foot was already on the step, and as she disappeared into the carriage she let go the bundle she was carrying and the green-and-white check tea-towel went fluttering like an escaped flag and its clutch of scones went rolling all over the platform and under the wheels of the train. An angry guard slammed the door shut as the train passed him, gathering speed all the while. Bunty glimpsed Mrs Reeves’ bemused face through one of the windows and wondered if she would pull the communication cord when she realized that Bunty had been left behind.
But no, for the train whistled loudly, sending a flurry of pigeons from the rafters, and passed beyond the canopy and out into the blue morning. Bunty sobbed noisily as the train grew smaller and then curved away into nothing and a strange silence descended on the station, a silence full of wretched disappointment and yet at the same time oddly peaceful. It was broken by the heavy, clanging noise of something metallic being dropped and the ticket collector came out from his box and took Bunty’s hand, saying gruffly, ‘Shall we try and get you sorted out, young lady?’ because Bunty was standing not only in a pool of tears but in a puddle of something more embarrassing.
All the time this was happening, not only was Ted providing a wailing counterpoint upstairs but Nell was also talking to herself, sneering, biting kind of words that made her sound like a madwoman putting a curse on someone – although when Bunty listened she found that it was nothing more than an alphabetical recitation of the cake recipes in Nell’s Dyson’s
Self-Help
book –
Afternoon Tea Scones, Almond Paste Cakes, Bachelor’s Buttons, Chocolate Sandwich, Coconut Rock Buns, Cream Cake, Feather Cake, Fluffy Cake, Genoa Cake
. Bunty crept out of the kitchen and sat on the bench in the yard. She’d been quite wrung out of tears by now and she sat quietly in the sun trying not to think about what the Sunday School would be doing in Scarborough. All the while Betty’s sick cough hacked at her ears. When she looked over her shoulder, through the kitchen window, she could get a glimpse of Nell, grating nutmeg on top of the milk, not just the usual sprinkle, but the whole nutmeg – up and down, up and down on the grater and she only stopped when there was a dreadful bumping noise followed by screaming and Bunty supposed Ted had fallen downstairs again.
The following Sunday, Mrs Reeves gathered her exuberant brood around her skirts and allowed them to chatter on for a full five minutes about their wonderful outing and when they had finished she looked at Bunty and said, ‘What a shame you missed our outing, Berenice. I hope it’s taught you a lesson about punctuality, you missed such a lot of fun and games,’ and then Mrs Reeves nodded at Adina Terry, who opened her big
Children’s Illustrated Bible
and, with a small sigh, said, ‘Today, children, we’re going to read the story of the Good Samaritan.’
