Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow (20 page)

‘They got me dander up,' said Vi, and so as they began to reminisce over the adventure through which they had just passed the evening drew to a close and they went to bed. Next day they were back at their labours.

* * *

Four weeks later Mrs Harris's doorbell went mad at 8 a.m., and when she opened the door she found Mrs Butterfield on her doorstep trembling and holding a rather outsized and highly official-looking envelope with the crest of the Soviet Embassy upon it. Entering she cried, ‘Ada, I'm frightened. Look wot's come, delivered by 'and. Do you suppose they're after me?'

‘Silly,' said Mrs Harris, her own curiosity highly aroused, ‘why don't you open it and see?'

They did. There was a card inside which read, ‘His Excellency Valery Zornyn, Ambassador from the USSR to Great Britain, begs the attendance of Mrs Violet Butterfield at the Embassy at 4 o'clock this afternoon.' At the bottom, handwritten, was a little note, ‘She may if she likes bring her friend, Mrs Harris, with her.' For the rest there was only the address of the Embassy at Kensington Palace Gardens, w8.

Mrs Butterfield was all atremble. ‘See, I told you so. They'll take me and send me back there.'

But Mrs Harris who had been studying the card with steadier nerves said, ‘Don't be stupid, Vi. If they were going to do anything like that they wouldn't 'ave said I could accompany you. We go.'

In Moscow during l'Affaire Harris-Butterfield, Sir Harold Barry had made a little speech to his opposite number, Anatole, about the vagaries and curiosity of Russian behaviour in which sentimentality and
cruelty seemed to alternate. He had spoken the truth. Probably no more strange and mixed-up humans walked the planet. They were capable of the most dreadful horrors and also the most enchanting hospitality and generosity.

It was His Excellency the Russian Ambassador himself, standing by an exquisitely inlaid marquetry table on which reposed a large cardboard box, who made the following little speech: ‘Madam Butterfield, during your visit to our country, the details of which I am not familiar with, I have been given to understand that a promise was made to you. The Russian Government and its people always fulfil their promises and it is therefore with the greatest pleasure that I present you with …' and here an assistant raised the cover of the cardboard box, a second scrabbled tissue paper out of the way and a third raised from it, fluffed up and spread out, probably the most magnificent rich, brown sable coat ever to have covered the backs of Soviet sables. ‘Allow me to present you with it. You need not worry. There will be no duty or customs difficulties. The coat has entered the country legally as a part of the Soviet Diplomatic Pouch. It is free and clear.'

Pale, shaking with excitement as well as astonishment, Mrs Butterfield was enveloped in the coat and there stood Yogi Bear only twice as huge as though expanded with a bicycle pump. She looked about as impossible as it was for anyone to look wrapped in
such an exquisite garment. It was gorgeous, it was heavenly, it was the best ever, but it wasn't Mrs Butterfield. Ada Harris was too touched at the Russians having remembered their promise, and delivered with such grandeur, to laugh, but she wanted to. It fitted all right. It was Mrs Butterfield's size, but the nature of the long nap of the fur itself made her look like something that had just toddled away from the Regent's Park Zoo.

The Ambassador smiled benignly, his job done. The secretary replaced the coat in the box and Mrs Butterfield and Mrs Harris emerged unscathed from the Soviet Embassy.

Unscathed? Hardly. For now it weighed upon them both.

‘Wot's it worth?' Violet asked at one of their evening sessions.

‘About ten thousand quid,' Ada replied.

‘Oh lordy, lordy, we'll all be robbed and murdered in our beds for it.'

‘Not as long as nobody knows we've got it,' replied Ada.

‘But what am I to do with it? I carn't wear the bleedin' fing. It makes me look like a bloody helifant.'

‘Well, not exactly a helifant,' Ada said, ‘though it does round you out a bit.'

‘ 'Ow am I going to show up at the Paradise Club
for cleaning out lavatories, 'andin' out 'airpins and wipin' off lipstick wearin' a ten thousand quid Russian sable coat? I'd better give it back to 'em.'

‘You carn't. They'd be insulted. We've got to fink.'

She went into her thinking pose, chin in hand and suddenly she leaped up and cried, ‘Oh my gawd, what's 'appened to me brynes, and why didn't I fink of it before? Except I thought you might be wantin' to keep it. We flog it.'

‘Flog it?' said Violet, wide-eyed. ‘Flog it to who? You know we don't want no questions arsked. 'Oo's goin' to give ten thousand quid?'

‘I wouldn't say exactly ten,' replied Ada, ‘but near enough. That's why I say there's somefink the matter wif me brynes. We sell it privately for a bit less but you'll 'ave a fortune for your old age. It just came to me mind.'

‘But 'oo?' queried Mrs Butterfield.

‘Lady Corrison,' replied Ada.

‘Wot?' exclaimed Vi. ‘The one 'oos 'usband tried to diddle your election?'

‘Just the type,' replied Ada. ‘Them kind is always lookin' for a bargain but it's the size that matters. I just remembered Lady Corrison is built, well – somewhat along your lines and it would fit 'er perfect. And once when I was doin' the cleanin' there I 'eard Lady Corrison badgerin' 'er 'usband to buy 'er a sable coat and 'im sayin' 'e'd be 'anged if
'e'd put out nine or ten thousand quid for a bit of hide. But if we let 'em 'ave it as a bargain 'e might soon enough think different. We could let 'er 'ave it for seven. She could work 'er 'usband for that. You buys your musquash coat at Arding and Hobbs, the best one they got, and puts the rest into stocks and shares or better still you pays off the mortgage on yer 'ouse and never 'ave another worry for the rest of yer life.'

‘Oh lordy,' said Mrs Butterfield, practically overcome. ‘Do you fink she would? 'Ow would she explain?'

‘Explain, nuffink,' said Ada. ‘You 'eard the Ambassador say the coat come in all regular and legal and if there was any kind of a fiddle needed, Sir Wilmot Corrison's the man to do it. 'E's an expert. It's as good as done.'

‘Ada,' said Vi, ‘I don't know what in the world I would do wifout you or what I could do to thank you if you could manage to get the fing out of me 'ouse at even 'arf the price.'

But she did know in one way how to thank her friend who managed to squeeze £6,500 out of the Corrisons for the exchange and before another day had passed Mrs Butterfield was proud and happy in her musquash coat and the rest, or almost the rest, of the money safely stowed away. For one evening, a week or so later, returning home from her labours to her living-room, Mrs Harris found to her surprise
and ecstatic delight that the old television set was gone and in its place in a stately cabinet reposed a magnificent, giant screen £450 colour television set. A moment later Mrs Butterfield appeared and was hugged and kissed and given the rounds of ‘You shouldn't have done it,' ‘Oh, Vi, isn't it beautiful?' ‘But, you spent so much money on it,' ‘I ain't never been so thrilled in me life,' ‘You carn't know 'ow much I've wanted one, but how on earth did you get it in 'ere?'

‘I nipped yer spare key last night,' Mrs Butterfield replied. Then with moist kisses and hugs added, ‘We'll both enjoy it, dearie, and you 'ad it comin' to you. If it 'adn't been for you I'd never of got me musquash and all that money in the bank. Let's try it. The 'Umbolt Family is coming on now on ITV. The other programme is just finished.'

‘Loverly,' echoed Mrs Harris, ‘I'm dyin' to see it work. Which button do you push? 'Ere, this one, I s'pose. It says “ON”.' She pushed it and the voice spoke before the picture and was saying, ‘British Airways Special Tour contest just for you.'

Then the picture, in glorious colour, bloomed on to the screen and as the two women stared unbelieving, they were back in Red Square, the Kremlin, St Basil's, a glimpse of the great cannon and bell and over it the plummy voice announcing, ‘British Airways package holiday tours offer YOU a chance to win two free tickets for five days in glorious Moscow.
Send to British Airways, Heathrow Airport, for our brochure, fill in the coupon and post it to us and you may be the lucky one. Or, for further information, telephone 231–6633 and make sure of this opportunity for this magnificent prize.'

Red Square zoomed in again, passers-by passed by. The queue still waited outside Lenin's tomb, pigeons arose, bells pealed. Mrs Harris and Mrs Butterfield fell into one another's arms screaming with laughter, and remained there shouting helplessly until the commercial faded from the screen.

PAUL GALLICO
was born in New York City, of Italian and Austrian parentage, in 1897, and attended Columbia University. From 1922 to 1936 he worked on the
New York Daily News
as sports editor, columnist, and assistant managing editor. In 1936 he bought a house on top of a hill at Salcombe in South Devon and settled down with a Great Dane and twenty-three assorted cats. It was in 1941 that he made his name with
The Snow Goose
, a classic story of Dunkirk which became a worldwide bestseller. Having served as a gunner's mate in the U.S. Navy in 1918, he was again active as a war correspondent with the American Expeditionary Force in 1944. Gallico, who later lived in Monaco, was a first-class fencer and a keen sea-fisherman.

He wrote over forty books, four of which were the adventures of Mrs Harris:
Mrs Harris Goes to Paris
(1958),
Mrs Harris Goes to New York
(1959),
Mrs Harris MP
(1965) and
Mrs Harris Goes to Moscow
(1974), all of which have been reissued by Bloomsbury Publishing, alongside
Coronation
(1962). One of the most prolific and professional of American authors, Paul Gallico died in July 1976.

MRS HARRIS GOES TO PARIS
& MRS HARRIS GOES TO NEW YORK

Mrs Harris is a salt-of-the-earth London charlady who cheerfully cleans the houses of the rich. One day, when tidying Lady Dant's wardrobe, she comes across the most beautiful thing she has ever seen – a Dior dress. She's never seen anything as magical and she's never wanted anything as much. Determined to make her dream come true, Mrs Harris scrimps, saves and slaves away until one day, she finally has enough money to go to Paris. Little does she know how her life is about to be transformed forever …

Part charlady, part fairy godmother, Mrs Harris's adventures take her from her humble Battersea roots to the heights of glamour in Paris and New York as she learns some of life's greatest lessons along the way.

‘Mrs Harris is one of the great creations of fiction – so real that you feel you know her, yet truly magical as well. I can never have enough of her'
JUSTINE PICARDIE

MRS HARRIS MP

London charlady Mrs Harris cheerfully spends her days cleaning the homes of the wealthy. But her knack of setting things straight often has a tendency to stray beyond keeping things neat and tidy …

Honest, forthright and thoroughly down-to-earth, Mrs Harris's views on life soon attract the interest of one of her clients, who just happens to be an MP. When he encourages her to be a voice for the people of Battersea and stand for election as an independent candidate, it seems like a dream come true. But the slippery world of politics proves a test for a lady as good and proper as Mrs Harris. Political skulduggery, the glare of the media and the apparent betrayal of a trusted friend are all issues she just hadn't bargained on …

‘The char with the golden heart'
SUNDAY TIMES

CORONATION

Imagine seeing the Queen
that
close as she goes by in her golden carriage! The kiddies will have something to tell
their
kiddies, won't they? And a drink of real champagne to go with it!

Coronation Day, 2 June 1953! A humble, working-class family from Sheffield is desperate to buy train tickets to London to see the coronation, but doing so means forsaking their annual seaside holiday. After some scrimping and saving, and a family meeting in which the enthusiasm of the children overrules the reluctance of their long-suffering mother and grandmother, the Clagg family take the plunge and buy premium, champagne tickets for the big day.

But alas, not everything goes smoothly. Will their tickets be everything they hoped for and dreamed? Will Granny stop grumbling that it's all a waste of money? And, most importantly, will they all get to see their beloved Queen? In this tender and heartwarming story, Paul Gallico brings to life the joy and fervor that swept the nation.

WWW.BLOOMSBURY.COM/PAULGALLICO

First published in Great Britain by
William Heinemann Ltd 1974
This electronic edition published in 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Copyright © Paul Gallico, 1974

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved. You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

Every reasonable effort has been made to trace
copyright holders of material reproduced in this
book, but if any have been inadvertently overlooked
the publishers would be glad to hear from them.

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