The Lotus House (6 page)

“You’ll probably get a splendid tea,” said Andrew, “Mrs S. did us proud at her party.”

Harriet did not reply.

“Don’t sulk,” said Margot, “it’s not as if you get that many invitations to tea. It’s about time that you made some little friends at school, isn’t it, then you could ask them here and get asked back in return. Meanwhile, of course you must go to Mrs Sanderson’s, and when you go, please try and look as though you want to see her doll’s house.”

So soon after four o’clock, having come back from school and changed from her brown jersey and skirt into her blue velveteen, Harriet knocked on Mrs Sanderson’s sitting-room door.

“We’ll see the doll’s house first, I think,” said Mrs Sanderson. “I keep it in my bedroom.”

Mrs Sanderson’s bedroom looked immense to Harriet — it would have held six of her own little room easily, and at first she didn’t see the doll’s house, which stood in an alcove which had once held a carving table.

“Here it is,” said Mrs Sanderson and stood aside.

“Oh!” exclaimed Harriet, “Oh, but it isn’t a doll’s house, it’s a real house. Why, it’s
this
house got little.”

“Yes,” said Letty, “it’s a little Lotus House, and it was made like that cleverly by two nice boys who used to live here once. I’ll open it for you so that you can see inside.”

Harriet eagerly knelt down in front of it, just as Selina had done long ago on that memorable birthday.

“It’s got real furniture in it,” she said, “real proper furniture, and pictures on the walls and pots and pans in the kitchen and bedclothes and curtains and little books, and there’s people in it!”

“Of course,” said Letty, “what did you expect?”

Harriet certainly had not expected anything like this.
The silly tiny toy doll’s house at Queensmead hadn’t any people in it, and only broken bits of plastic tables and chairs. She looked up at Letty and her small dark eyes, so extremely unlike her mother’s, were unusually bright and shining.

“May I take the people out and look at them?”

“Yes, if you’re careful,” said Letty.

“There’s a father and a mother and a little girl!” cried Harriet.

“That’s Mr and Mrs Golightly and their daughter Wilhelmina Rose — aren’t those nice names?”

“No,” said Harriet, “they’re silly names, I think.”

Letty was taken aback and would have felt ridiculously annoyed had she not immediately told herself that this was absurd. It was, of course, for that other child that she felt momentarily hurt, the child who long ago had invented those odd, old, dear names — yet nothing now could touch that child, so why worry?

“What ought they to be called then, do you think?” she asked.

“
I
know,” said Harriet. She had known at once but she was not going to tell. “I can see more people, there’s an old man in bed — what’s he in bed for?”

So then Letty recounted Selina’s story of the famous railway disaster. “It happened at the bottom of this very garden,” she said.

“It couldn’t have,” said Harriet, “there’s houses there.”

Letty explained patiently that the garden used to go right down to the railway; “There was an orchard and a vegetable garden where all the houses are now.”

“Oh,” said Harriet, not very interested, “well, I don’t think there was a railway accident,
I
think he just didn’t have any legs ever. Who’s that lady in the kitchen? What funny clothes!”

“She’s the cook, she’s got a cap and an apron on, all cooks used to wear them.”

But Harriet didn’t know about cooks. “Is Miss Cook a relation? She’s very like her.”

“So she is,” agreed Letty. “Now shall we go and have our tea, perhaps you could toast some buns?”

“Yes, I could,” said Harriet, getting up slowly from her knees, “but may I come back afterwards?”

“Indeed you may,” said Letty, “and if you promise me always to be very careful, you can come and play with the little house by yourself sometimes. I expect Saturdays would be best, when you don’t go to school.”

“Thank you,” said Harriet, “thank you very much.”

When the afternoon was over and Harriet had gone, Letty felt pleased on the whole, for Harriet, in spite of her rejection of the whole Golightly saga, had responded satisfactorily to the doll’s house in every other way and she felt herself warmed towards the child.

From then onwards Harriet spent most Saturday mornings playing with the little house. She had begun, as every child will do, by rearranging all the furniture, and then settled down to her own particular inventions. The inhabitants led very humdrum lives compared to those they had enjoyed in the past. Letty, though she took care never to interfere or to stay in the room for long, caught snatches from time to time and soon learnt the new names of the late Golightlys: “And how are you this morning, my dear Mrs Royce, and how is your dear husband, Mr Royce, and your darling little daughter Harriet?”

Selina, thought Letty, had been a child who could afford fantasy, the wilder the better: “Oh, no, no, no, Ros, I don’t
want
them real.”

But now there were no more burglaries or elopements or fires or accidents.

“You shall have this big wardrobe in your bedroom, Harriet, for all the lovely dresses I have bought you. No, of course you need not go to school tomorrow, it’s my birthday. Your Mummy couldn’t have a birthday with her
darling little daughter at school. We’ll ask Daddy to come home early and all have a lovely party together …” Or, another time: “Look, Harriet darling, Cook has made this cake especially for you, your favourite chocolate icing — would you like to ask your best friend Ben to tea — we’ll send a piece up to grandfather, shall we? He’ll love to see you — he says you grow more and more like me every day …”

These and like snippets of doll’s house conversation overheard on Saturday mornings often made Letty Sanderson feel a little uneasy.

Harriet’s school took music seriously. This was because it had been lucky enough to find Miss Johnson, the head of the music department, who was an enthusiast and who believed that everyone, given the chance, could develop some measure of musical appreciation and ability. She started all the younger children as soon as they came with singing, recorders, cymbals, whistles and drums. Harriet looked forward to the music sessions and to her astonishment it wasn’t long before she had found that she was singled out for praise. One day Miss Johnson told her to stay behind when the class was over and asked her if she would like to have special lessons besides playing in the band. Had she ever thought of learning to play a violin for instance? They wanted some more violin players in the junior orchestra.

Harriet did not speak but her tell-tale face gave Miss Johnson her answer.

“I think you
would
like it,” she said.

“Yes,” said Harriet, “yes, I would, but I would rather learn the piano, please.” Since coming to live at the Lotus House she had often listened to Andrew playing his piano and sometimes it gave her a prickly feeling down her spine which was queer but splendid. Her favourite piece of furniture in the doll’s house had always been the little piano and the doll, Harriet, could play it quite well.

“Very well, the piano it shall be,” said Miss Johnson, who believed on the whole in putting a pupil’s wishes before her own, “I’ll write to your mother.”

And a day or two later Margot had the letter.

“The school seem to think Harriet is musical,” she said to Andrew that evening. “They suggest that she might have piano lessons.”

“Good for Harriet,” said Andrew.

“Well, I don’t know so much, the fees are high enough as it is — I can’t afford frills.”

“Music isn’t a frill,” said Andrew.

“Sorry, darling, but you know how mean Dick is, and his wretched parents have never offered to help.”

“He’s got another family now to support, hasn’t he?” said Andrew. “And weren’t his parents pretty sick at your leaving him?”

“Why are you defending him suddenly?” said Margot crossly.

“I’m not particularly,” said Andrew, “I’m only stating the facts.”

“Well, anyway, I think learning the piano will only take her attention and time away from proper lessons and she’s backward enough as it is.”

“Can I see the letter?” asked Andrew. She tossed it over to him and he read it carefully.

“I’d teach her myself,” he said thoughtfully, “only I’d find it difficult to be regular and besides, I’m sure I’m not a good teacher, I know nothing about it. I expect there are all sorts of new methods. Look here. Margot, if you can’t manage the extra money, I can.”

Margot looked at him curiously. “I suppose I ought to be grateful,” she said, “but I rather think you’re offering this just to annoy me.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Andrew.

“Well, why this sudden concern for Harriet?”

“I don’t think I’m doing it for Harriet exactly.”

“Whatever for, then?”

“For music, I suppose,” said Andrew slowly.

Margot experienced a dim glimpse at worlds unrealized. She acknowledged, of course, the value of the arts in general. She went to an occasional concert though she knew (but would never have admitted it) that she would not really have wanted a single record on her Desert Island, but would have plumped for eight luxuries instead. She attended picture exhibitions as part of her work assignment and prided herself on her judgement of the monetary value of works of art, and she strove to keep abreast of the most talked-of films, plays and novels. Her furnishings and decorations were always interesting and in fashion, and therefore contained few permanent objects. Andrew’s piano was really the only recognizably stable feture in their successive sitting-rooms, also the only one that was there because it was loved. Margot saw, but did not feel, how beautiful things were. She did not understand what Andrew meant about music, but Harriet got her lessons.

“Are you going to let the child practise on your precious piano?” asked Margot incredulously, for it soon became clear that practising at school wasn’t enough for either Miss Johnson or Harriet.

“Yes, I think so,” said Andrew, “not when I’m working at home, of course, and never with sticky fingers.” He smiled at Harriet, “But I’m sure you’ll see to that, Harriet, won’t you?”

“Yes, I will,” said Harriet.

“Now darling,” Mrs Doll’s House Royce said to her little girl, “you must practise regularly every single day and you must never, never forget to wash your hands
most
properly first.”

ALL THROUGH THE
winter and spring Mrs Sanderson had difficulty in procuring any reliable domestic help. The Lotus House was not the type to attract these rare specimens, especially her own rooms with their wide expanses of floorboards needing polishing (she disliked fitted carpets) and actually with two antiquated open fireplaces. Helps arrived, drank a great deal of her tea or coffee according to taste, disapproved and disappeared. The latest had been a chain-smoker and had left trails of ash all over the place. Letty at last decided to tackle her, not because of the ash, nor for the smell of stale smoke which was unpleasantly difficult to get rid of, but about the dangers of lung cancer. She feared that any advice might be taken as interference but the girl was so young and it did seem a pity. Her gentle remonstrance however was not resented nor was it of any use.

“Well, what I say is, we’ve all got a date fixed.” And she in her turn vanished without any warning.

“You’re looking quite worn out, Mrs Sanderson,” said Miss Budgeon at the little corner shop. Letty bought all her fruit and vegetables there now.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I get rather tired sometimes, that’s all. I haven’t any help at present.” Miss Budgeon looked thoughtful.

Three days later a smart slim car deposited an equally
smart slim passenger at the Lotus House who rang Letty’s bell. She was heavily made-up and wore a black silk blouse, tight scarlet trousers and matching scarlet stilletto heeled shoes.

“Mrs Sanderson?” enquired this vision crisply. “I’m Dian — she said at the shop you needed help, dear, and I think I can fit you in Tuesdays.”

Letty gazed at her in astonishment. How could Miss Budgeon have possibly thought this black and scarlet dragonfly suitable for cleaning floors and scrubbing woodwork? Still, there she stood waiting.

“Thank you very much,” murmured Letty, “but you’d better have a look round first, I think.”

The look round, however, did not apparently disconcert Dian.

“Righty ho, then,” she said when it was finished. “I’ll be here Tuesday next, ten sharp.” The car drove off.

“
She
won’t last long,” commented Letty to herself, “if she ever turns up at all.”

Tuesday morning however, brought Dian all right, and in the self-same clothes, the only concession she made to her morning’s work was to change her stilettos into a pair of equally smart sandals tied on with velvet ribbon, and to envelop herself in an overall of shocking pink.

It did not take long however for Letty to discover that Miss Budgeon had provided her with a treasure. Never had floorboards shone so, never had rugs and carpets looked so trim, never had tiles and taps twinkled so brightly. Dian was both quick and thorough — floors were her passion. She seldom seemed to look above the skirting-board in the sitting-room and bedrooms, but as the dusting was Letty’s business, this did not really matter. Objects didn’t interest Dian but after her floors had been attended to, she had plenty of observation for the people who walked on them.

“That Mrs Royce — she’s a peach, she is. I wouldn’t
much want my Luke to set eyes on her.”

“Your basement, she’s a shy one — puts me in mind of a goldfish we’ve got, slips away behind his waterweed at a shadow.”

“Who does for your third-floor then? Doesn’t often do to let men do for themselves, dearie — regular messers, most of ’em.”

There might be something in this, Letty thought, and after a word with Aubrey Stacey, who seemed grateful, it was arranged that Dian should see to his floor too. “And quite time I should say, thick with dust you could write yer name on, but that vacuum of his came out of the Ark, I shouldn’t wonder.” Letty had a pleasant momentary vision of Mrs Noah busily at work.

Doing for Aubrey meant that Dian brought her lunch now and stayed on for an extra hour afterwards. Letty and she had the meal together. Dian obviously had never entertained any other idea for a moment but she refused to share Letty’s food.

“Must keep to me diet, dearie — it don’t matter for you but my Luke likes me sheer.” Letty felt uncomfortable consuming her quite substantial lunch, while Dian pecked at two slices of Ryvita spread with a non-fat cream cheese, and nibbled at an apple. She hoped Luke persuaded her to cook for two in the evenings. Luke was another shock when she met him. He was a huge coal-black Jamaican, a junior partner, so Dian proudly boasted, in a garage in Deptford — hence, Letty supposed, the succession of cars that brought Dian every Tuesday morning.

“I don’t have to oblige.” said Dian, “my Luke brings in good money, but staying at home all day gives me the creeps.” Luke and Dian lived on the estate but though so near, Dian never walked if she could avoid it. Sometimes, even, Luke would call again for her and take her back home. He had other uses too.

The delivery of Miss Cook’s post was a constant source of annoyance to her. The postman insisted on ignoring her prized separate entrance and delivered her letters with all the others at the main door. Not that she had much in the way of post, but when she had, it meant that she either had to fetch it or be beholden to Mrs Sanderson or one of the other lodgers for bringing it round and Miss Cook did not care for this. One Tuesday it was Dian who came to her door with a sales catalogue and a picture postcard of Hastings from her sister-in-law Doris, where she and Henry were having a little break. Miss Cook could not refrain from complaint.

“It’s too bad, causing all this trouble, what’s he paid for, I’d like to know?”

“Well, it’s only natural really,” said Dian, “it’s the same name, ‘The Lotus House’. Pretty, I call it.”

“But it’s got ‘The Basement Flat’ written perfectly clearly,” said Miss Cook, “and I’ve told him again and again.”

“Not to worry,” said Dian, “I’ll get my Luke to have a word with him — my Luke, he’s known all round here. Mind if I have a look at your catalogue? What they get up to these days!” she added, “You’re in luck, luv, see what it says here,” and she started to read out very slowly: “‘You have been chosen to take part in our very special draw, limited to only a few customers, and I have some more exciting news for you, Miss Cook. You have been selected to receive one of the superb gifts pictured on page 5 of our catalogue. All you have to do is to return your lucky number with your order.’ Oo, let’s look at page 5.”

“It’s all nonsense,” said Miss Cook, “it’s just to make you buy their stuff which I never have. I don’t know how they got hold of my name.”

“But they aren’t all cons,” said Dian, “my Luke he knows a fellow, met him standing drinks all round at the
Green Man one night, he’d won a Metro with his lucky number, red it was Luke said, he saw it there outside in the car park, brand-new all right, ’s truth. Mind you, it’s your stars as does it and they don’t oblige often, but you never know do you — that’s what I like about life really, you never know. Which one of them superb gifts will you choose, then?”

“I don’t want any of them,” said Miss Cook, sniffing contemptuously, “thank you for bringing round my post,” and she moved purposefully towards the door.

“Goldfish,” sighed Dian to herself and retreated. But Janet Cook had no more trouble about her letters.

“Postman behaving himself?” enquired Dian, “I says as my Luke’d fix him,” and it wasn’t long after this that Janet had a further greater reason to be grateful to Dian’s Luke.

All the estate children were a source of irritation to Janet. Their shouting and screaming and shrill laughter (of all noises except perhaps the barking of dogs, the ugliest and most disturbing), this she was prepared to put up with as the unenviable snag which she had expected to discover when first moving into this otherwise pleasant new home. But the behaviour of “the Terribles” went beyond this (that of course was only Harriet’s private name for them, but it was one of which Janet would have approved). On one occasion it even menaced her personal safety, or so she was convinced.

As winter had given place to spring, Janet Cook had begun to cultivate her strip of garden. Obsessively conscientious by upbringing, she took her responsibility for this seriously but also, unsuspected by herself, she happened to have inherited from her country clergyman grandfather something of more value than his armchair or the tradition of gentility so treasured by her mother. He had loved growing things and had possessed green fingers. Janet had always had a weakness for flowers and had not
infrequently incurred her mother’s rebukes for squandering her money on them. Now she purchased a paperback on gardening, several packets of seeds from Woolworth’s, a trowel, a fork and a pair of gardening gloves. She had set herself to clear the ground so that she could sow her seeds, and they had grown splendidly — but so had the weeds. She was emptying her bucket of these on the compost heap among the old bushes by the fence one day just as ‘the Terribles’ rushed out in a body and started to use the fence as a target.
Pop,
bang,
pop
went their peashooters, making Janet jump so that she upset her weeds all over the place. One bullet came over and nearly hit her.

“Stop that at once!” she called out. Immediately heads appeared above the fence.

“Get along, you old cow,” shouted out one boy.

“Let’s see if we can hit her bucket,” shouted another, “if she gets peppered it’s her own bloody fault.”

Janet trembled with rage but just then Dian appeared, it being Tuesday, to shake out the ground-floor rugs.

“Look out,” called out one of the boys, “it’s big Luke’s trout,” and all the heads disappeared.

Janet picked up her basket, she was still trembling at the outrage.

“What’s them boys bin up to?” said Dian. “They get above themselves sometimes. Mind you it’s their Mums’ and Dads’ fault. You and me was brought up different.”

“I should think so!” exclaimed Janet Cook. “I shall complain to the police.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, really,” said Dian, “My Luke’ll see to them, they’ll mind him better ’n any policemen.” Janet, recollecting the postman and considering how rapidly the Terribles had disappeared, was inclined to believe her and, true enough, she was free of insults from that day. Feeling under an obligation to Dian, she actually decided to invite her in for a cup of tea
on one of her Tuesdays. Dian accepted with alacrity. She looked appreciatively round the flat.

“It’s real cosy, I wonder Mrs Sanderson didn’t take it for herself, instead of them great fancy rooms of hers.”

Janet was gratified. “It isn’t just as I want it yet though,” she said. “I’m saving up for a new carpet.”
Now
why
have
I
told
her
that,
she thought,
it’
s
none
of
her
business.

But Dian nodded in quick sympathy. “I favour them as suck your feet in like, as if you were walking in a bog,” she said, “Luke and me’ll buy one of those when we win the pools. But this one’s a nice colour though. Tell you what, mind if I bring along me new shampoo? Got it as a sample last week. What you can get nowadays! Free it was, ’cept for the stamps. It brought mine up lovely.”

The shampoo certainly did make a difference and the two women shared the pleasure of achievement and another cup of tea together.

“In spite of her looks and the way she speaks, I believe she really has a heart of gold,” Janet said to that persistently admonishing voice of her mother, undeterred apparently by the grave, “and her Luke has been most useful. Yes, Mother, I know he is black, but I can’t help that and nor can he, and whatever grandfather would say, he’s been a real help.”

Miss Cook soon had another worry. A mouse actually ventured into the kitchen of the basement flat. “I never thought to have had mice
here
,” she exclaimed outraged to Letty, who found herself apologizing humbly.

“I wouldn’t have thought it either,” she said, “especially in
your
kitchen, Miss Cook.”

Janet abominated mice. They were dirty, destructive and noisy — “How anyone can say ‘as quiet as a mouse’, I can’t imagine, and they dart about so, it unnerves me.”

“It’s primeval,” said Dian darkly, “you can’t do nothing
about what’s primeval — except traps.”

“I can’t bear dealing with traps,” said Janet. There had been mice and traps at intervals in Albert Street, but her mother or Henry had always dealt with them.

“Traps is cruel,” agreed Dian, “well, there’s cats, they’re more natural, and leastways the cat gets some fun.”

“I don’t really want to be bothered with a cat,” said Janet. “We never were a family for pets.”

“Well,” said Dian, “it’s traps or cats or mice, ’cause it won’t stop by itself. Cats is the most lasting and reliable I’d say.”

They were talking at Miss Cook’s door, and just at that moment the fugitive cat which Harriet had once seen escaping from the Terribles streaked across the lawn again. She had appeared several times before this and Miss Cook had always shooed her away. She started now to shoo once more but Dian stopped her. “It’s sent all right, fancy that — it’s milk, not shooing, you ought to be after.”

“What do you mean,” said Miss Cook affronted. “Who’s sent it?”

“It’s your stars as sent it, Miss Cook,” replied Dian solemnly.

“Do you really think I should encourage it?” said Janet doubtfully.

“If you wants to get rid of that mouse,” said Dian.

“But what about its owners?”

“Don’t worry yourself about
them
,”
snorted Dian, “till they worries you, which’ll be never, see? It’s starving, that poor cat is, anyone can see with half an eye. A saucer or two of milk and it’ll be yours for life. That poor kid upstairs’ll be pleased, too, I bet.”

Dian was right about Harriet, who met the cat in the garden the next day and recognized it at once. Miss Cook was busy gardening.

“Is she your cat, then?” asked Harriet, “I didn’t think she was yours.”

“She is now,” said Miss Cook grudgingly, “she kept coming over from the estate to get away from those boys.”

“Oh, I
know
,’ said Harriet, “I am so glad she’s your cat now, what are you going to call her?”