The Second-last Woman in England (37 page)
It was the half-term school holiday and a trip to the park had been organised. At the last moment Julius had announced he had homework to do and would not, therefore, be accompanying them. So Jean and Anne had set out alone. The trip was not a success. At the park Anne had fallen off the slide and grazed her knee and Jean had stepped in some dog dirt. On the way home the rain had started and by the time they reached Athelstan Gardens it was falling in large, fat drops that ran down the backs of their necks.
When they got home Mrs Wallis was out and Julius was watching the television.
Jean stopped and stood in the doorway of the drawing room staring in silent fascination at the screen. Anne danced around in the hallway in her socks, obviously waiting, with barely suppressed glee, for Nanny to enquire why Julius was not doing the aforementioned homework, but instead Jean simply said ‘Wash your hands before tea’, and continued to stare at the screen. It was hypnotic.
Anne sat down in Mr Wallis’s upright armchair and sulked.
On the television a man was sitting in a black leather chair with his legs crossed talking to another man who also had his legs crossed. The first man wore a grey suit—well, one presumed it was grey—and the second man wore a tweed jacket and had a pipe in the corner of his mouth.
‘That does sound truly fascinating. And can you tell the children, Professor Robbins, how you stayed warm on your Antarctic adventure?’ said the man in the suit. ‘Yes. I wore warm clothes,’ replied the second man and the man in the suit nodded vigorously.
‘Mummy said we weren’t to watch it,’ Anne observed petulantly.
‘I think you’ll find, old girl, that what she actually said was, don’t watch it
all day
. And I have no intention of watching it all day. I have more important things to do, even if you don’t.’
‘Anyway, what is it?’ said Anne sulkily.
‘It’s a man talking to another man about visiting the Antarctic.’
‘I suppose what we are all dying to know, Professor Robbins, is how many polar bears you saw?’ said the man in the suit. ‘None,’ replied the Professor wearily. ‘There aren’t any polar bears in the Antarctic. You’re probably thinking of the Arctic.’
‘You haven’t been studying at all!’ declared Anne accusingly.
‘Ssh, Anne, I’m trying to watch,’ said Jean.
Anne fell into a furious silence.
The two men in the studio had gone and Jean heard the words of a song:
Hip, hip, hip hooray
It’s hip, hip, Hippo day!
We’ve all come to play
It’s hip, hip, Hippo day!
‘It’s Aunt Felicity!’ screamed Anne, her fury at her brother seemingly forgotten.
‘Good grief!’ groaned Julius.
The words of the song were written on the screen and as a woman’s voice sang each word a finger pointed to it. Then the words vanished and Jean stepped backwards in surprise as, suddenly, there was Mrs Mumford gazing expressionlessly at her. Only she was black and white, of course, her blonde hair grey, her vivid red lipstick grey, her dress a bland, lighter shade of grey, but her gloves were still white. She smiled and her eyebrows raised as though she was surprised to see them all.
‘Hello, children,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day today?’
It had rained on and off throughout most of the day.
‘We’re in the garden.’
She wasn’t in a garden at all. She was standing at a counter in what was quite obviously the television studio. On the counter were some flowers in a row, tall-stemmed flowers with large grey petals and happy smiling faces.
‘Let’s see what Hippo’s up to, shall we?’ suggested Aunt Felicity, and she indicated with her arm to the end of the row of flowers. ‘There he is!’ she said, without taking her eyes off the camera.
Hippo was a dull grey colour. Mid-grey fur, a slightly darker shade of grey hat and a darker shade of grey bow tie.
‘Hello, Hippo,’ said Aunt Felicity. ‘What are you up to?’
As Hippo was holding a watering can and was clearly watering the smiling flowers this seemed a pointless question. Hippo paused in his watering and danced around awkwardly for a moment or two.
‘Hello, everyone!’ he said and his voice was very clipped, like a Wing Commander in a Battle of Britain film. ‘I’m watering my flowers,’ he explained and as proof he held up his little grey watering can. As his hands were large round grey paws this was no easy task.
‘And why are you watering your flowers, Hippo?’ asked Aunt Felicity, still smiling at the camera.
‘Because it’s warm and sunny and my flowers are very thirsty,’ replied Hippo.
‘Good grief,’ observed Julius again. He got up and walked out of the room shaking his head.
Jean, suddenly freed from television’s hypnotic spell by Julius’s departure, advanced at once on the wooden box.
‘What are you
doing
?’ shrieked Anne, alarmed.
‘I’m turning it off. You oughtn’t to be wasting your time watching it.’
Anne leapt up. ‘Leave it on, Nanny! I’m watching! I
demand
you leave it on!’
‘I’m sorry, Anne, but your mother was quite clear about it. And don’t you have piano practice to do?’
Anne gaped at her, her fists clenched in silent fury.
‘Is that a new hat, Hippo?’ said Aunt Felicity.
But whether or not Hippo was indeed sporting a new hat they were destined never to find out as Jean depressed the silver knob and the screen dissolved into a tiny white dot then disappeared altogether.
‘Turn it back on!’
But Jean carefully closed the little wooden doors and turned the little gold key and pocketed it. ‘I don’t think your mother would be very pleased if she knew you were spending your time watching this kind of thing, Anne. If I recall, she expressly forbade it.’
From upstairs they could faintly make out Julius humming the
Hippo and Friends
song cheerfully to himself.
Furious, Anne stomped after him, then paused in the doorway, breathing heavily.
‘It’s not fair!’ she wailed. ‘Why does
he
always get to do what he wants and I never do! Everyone always tells me what to do, or they don’t listen when I want to do something, or they only pretend to listen when really they aren’t! And everyone always gets to know what’s happening first and why did no one tell
me
television was coming?
And why is it all right for Julius to watch television, but not me?’
‘The sooner you give up expecting life to be fair, Anne, the better off you’ll be.’
Angry tears welled up in the girl’s eyes and she brushed them furiously away.
‘Anyway,
I
know something Julius doesn’t know! I know something you and probably even
Mother
doesn’t know, so there!’
And she ran out.
Anne did not come down for tea. After a while Jean left Julius to pour the tea and went in search of her. Her room was empty, and as she came back downstairs Jean was surprised to see that the door to Mr Wallis’s study was ajar, when he always kept it firmly closed.
She went over and looked in. The study was silent and dark, the curtains half drawn to protect from the sunlight the photographs of ships that lined the walls. There was a different smell in here, different to anywhere else in the house—old, polished wood and dusty bookshelves and ink and ancient creaky leather upholstery—a fatherly sort of smell. The room was dominated by a vast desk and behind it was a tall, glass-fronted wooden cabinet.
But what she could see was Anne squatting down behind the desk, rummaging about in one of the drawers. In a moment she located what she was seeking and turned and fitted a small key into the lock on the cabinet door. The key turned smoothly and the door opened.
The cabinet consisted of four shelves containing a highly polished silver cup with a crest on it, dusty piles of papers and brown cardboard files and various other odds and ends. On the lowest shelf was a small and ornately carved wooden case. It looked like the sort of case that might contain jewellery.
As Jean watched, Anne reached down and lifted the wooden case and lay it on her father’s desk. She undid the catch and lifted up the lid and there, nestling on a cream silk lining, was a gun.
It was a large revolver, or perhaps a pistol, a dull, metallic black colour, and beside it was a faded pink cardboard cartridge box. Anne reached in and slowly, reverently, lifted the gun out with both hands, then rested the heavy, stubby barrel of the revolver over her left forearm, then she stared down the barrel, closing one eye and aiming it, just like the cowboys did at the Saturday morning matinee. She carefully got to her feet and took aim at the ships on Father’s wall, then pointed the gun at the photograph of herself and Julius on the desk, and finally she turned and stood at the window and took aim at the people down in Athelstan Gardens.
Jean must have moved as a floorboard creaked, making Anne spin around. For a moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity, they stared at each other. The gun was pointing straight at Jean and yet, rather than fear, Jean experienced a surge of power that ran the length of her body. The barrel of the gun swam in and out of focus.
‘Anne,’ she said calmly, ‘what do you think you’re doing?’
‘You can’t do anything, I have the gun,’ said Anne, laughing. ‘I can make you do whatever I like!’
‘What would you like me to do, then?’ said Jean.
‘And no one else even knows it’s here! Or where the key’s kept! But I saw it once, when I was standing just there, where you’re standing, waiting for Father; I saw him take the key out of the cabinet and put it in the bottom drawer. Then I could open the cabinet whenever I felt like it!’ She glanced over at the window and the street below. ‘Those stupid, silly people down there have no idea I’m up here with a gun aimed right at them! How surprised they would be, if they found out! How frightened they would be!’
‘Or perhaps they would just be angry?’ Jean suggested.
‘I can see you!’ said Anne, peering at Jean through her one open eye, ‘and I can make you do anything! Anything at all!’
Jean returned her stare. And Anne pointed the gun and laughed.
Then her laugh ended and she seemed not to know quite what to do next. She scowled at Jean and took aim again, then, because Jean didn’t do or say anything and Anne clearly could not think of anything to make Nanny do, she lowered the gun and pretended to shoot the carpet.
‘Pow!’ she said.
Jean advanced on her and grabbed her by both shoulders.
‘You stupid, stupid girl!’ she shouted, shaking her violently.
Anne dropped the gun, which fell with a loud thud, and for a second neither of them moved. They both stood staring down at it.
Anne suddenly looked frightened, and Jean shook her again.
‘Do you think this is a
toy
? You
stupid
child.
Do you? DO YOU?
’
Anne burst into tears.
‘I didn’t mean it, I was only pretending. You won’t tell Daddy, will you?
Please!’
‘Don’t touch it! Move away from it right now!’
Anne leapt backwards in her hurry to move away, leaving Jean to scoop up the gun and lay it back inside its box.
Anne began to sob.
‘But I didn’t do anything—’
‘Don’t you
ever
—don’t you ever,
EVER
do such a thing again.
Do you
hear me?
’ And Jean advanced upon her so that Anne shrank back, pressing herself against the door of the cabinet.
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Do you hear me?’
But Anne pushed past Jean and fled from the room.
Jean remained where she was, in the centre of the room, the gun in its box held before her in both hands.
After a moment, she closed the lid of the box and returned it to its shelf in Mr Wallis’s cabinet, turning the key to lock it. Then she hesitated. Of course, she would have to tell Mr Wallis. She slipped the key into her pocket. Yes, Mr Wallis would have to be told. And until then, the key was safe in her keeping.
The red, white and blue bunting strung from the lampposts in Athelstan Gardens hung limply in the steady drizzle that had begun before dawn and showed no signs of letting up.
Cecil, standing at his bedroom window in the grey dawn, experienced such a crushing disappointment in the pit of his stomach it was almost too much to bear. All everyone wanted was a sunny day for the Coronation, and instead it was raining. In The Mall and in the streets that lined the Coronation route those who had camped out overnight would be waking to a sky that was overcast and a June morning that was as cold and damp as a winter’s day. It was like an eagerly awaited Christmas Day at midmorning, when one’s stocking has been opened, the Christmas Day service is over, there is no sign of the promised snow and all the grown-ups are acting as though it were just another day.
But this was a Coronation! And what a Coronation to witness! This was history. An occasion until now only observed by the highest dignitaries in the land would at eleven o’clock on this Tuesday morning in June be witnessed first-hand by millions. Thanks to television and the BBC.
