The Two Mrs. Abbotts (3 page)

Barbara Abbott and Sarah Walker were so delighted with each other and had so much to talk about that it required very little persuasion to induce Sarah to prolong her visit for a few days. She consulted her husband by telephone and received his assurance that he could manage quite well without her.

“That's lovely,” said Barbara. “Of course it will be dull for you because nothing happens anywhere just now but it will be a change of air. I think I shall ask one or two people to come to tea tomorrow.”

“Not for me,” said Sarah hastily.

“Oh no,” agreed Barbara smiling. “But I've been meaning to ask one or two people for ages and it will be so nice for them to meet someone new…and the bazaar is this afternoon, so—”

“The bazaar!”

“I shall
have
to go,” nodded Barbara. “It would be nice if you came. You needn't buy anything of course and we shan't stay long. It's being opened by an author—one of Arthur's authors—Janetta Walters is her name.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Sarah, who had read some of Janetta's books and had very little use for them.

“She's a draw,” Barbara explained. “They were very lucky to get her.”

“I suppose they were,” agreed Sarah. (Personally she would not have gone out of her way to see the author of
Her
Prince
at
Last
—which was one of Janetta's best known works—but she was aware that quite a number of people differed from her in that respect. Janetta's name was well known; her portrait appeared in various weekly and monthly papers—Janetta at her desk, Janetta in her garden, Janetta in her drawing room surrounded with flowers.)

The morning was bright and sunshiny and the two friends sallied forth to do the shopping, Barbara with a large basket on her arm.

“I'm afraid this is dull for you,” she said as they emerged from the arched gateway, which had given the house its name, and proceeded toward the town.

“Dear me, no,” replied Sarah. “I like seeing new places and it will be interesting to watch somebody else coping with food.”

The town of Wandlebury consists mainly of a large square, and for some reason it seemed to Barbara today that she was seeing the square for the first time, seeing it with Sarah's eyes…the wide space, paved with cobblestones, and the fountain in the middle; the pigeons wheeling about or strutting around the stone rim of the fountain with the sun shining on their iridescent plumage.

“It's fascinating!” exclaimed Sarah, pausing and looking around.

Barbara was pleased. She, too, thought it was a fascinating place. She pointed out the county buildings that occupied the south side of the square (they had been designed by Adam and were simple and dignified). She pointed out the ancient Elizabethan hostelry, the Apollo and Boot, which occupied the western side. She pointed out the shops. As they crossed the open space Sarah continued to give vent to her admiration. “It's so spacious,” she said. “It's so quiet and peaceful, so dignified. John would go raving mad if he saw those Adam buildings!”

“He must come and see them,” declared Barbara, oblivious of the literal meaning of her invitation. She was—as a matter of fact—somewhat
distrait,
for she was most anxious to meet some of her neighbors and introduce them to Sarah. Sarah was so
nice
—it had always been her word to describe Sarah although she was aware that strictly speaking the word meant something different from what she meant when she used it.

“There's a young man smiling at you, Barbara,” said Sarah as they made their way toward the butcher's.

“Where?” asked Barbara. “Oh yes, that's Lancreste Marvell. He's on sick leave just now, his mother told me. He's in the air force. It was because of Lancreste that the Marvells couldn't put you up—though as a matter of fact I know they have a perfectly good spare room—but I'm very glad they couldn't—or wouldn't,” added Barbara, pressing her friend's arm and hurrying on.

Barbara did not want to talk to Lancreste Marvell for he had been a disappointment to her. When she first came to Wandlebury Lancreste was fifteen. He was tall and fair and beautiful and had the voice of an angel, but these endearing charms had hidden inward wickedness. Yes, he had been a disappointment. Now, of course, Lancreste was grown up; his hair had become mousy and he had cultivated a small moustache that reminded one just a little of Hitler…Barbara nodded to him, quite kindly, and dived into the butcher's shop.

“I've got two shillings and twopence,” said Barbara, buttonholing the butcher who was dismembering a sheep. “What could I have for that? And could I possibly have some liver because I've got a friend staying with me.”

“You 'ad a piece of liver last week,” said the butcher sternly.

“Oh no,” cried Barbara. “Honestly I didn't. I haven't had any liver for ages.”

“Mrs. Abbott,” said the voice of Lancreste from behind her. “Mrs. Abbott, are you very busy? I mean could I—would you mind—I want to—to introduce a friend of mine.”

Barbara was exceedingly busy. She was engaged upon the most important business of the day—and it was not often that one had the good fortune to get hold of Mr. Bones himself—but she relinquished Mr. Bones and smiled at Lancreste, reminding herself that Lancreste was a member of the R. A. F. and was therefore one of the few to whom the many owe so much (though to be sure he had been drafted into the R. A. F. only recently). “Yes, Lancreste,” said Barbara vaguely, for she was still wondering how far the two and twopence would go amongst eight people (counting the children) and whether she could persuade Mr. Bones to give her the liver so that they could have a steak and kidney pie. Strictly speaking it would be a steak and liver pie but for some reason that sounded rather nasty. “Yes, Lancreste, of course, but if your friend could wait—I could speak to him later, couldn't I?”

“It's a girl,” said Lancreste.

“Oh, I see.”

“If you wouldn't mind,” he continued, swallowing nervously. “I mean she's waiting outside. She doesn't know anyone at all and you're always so kind.”

“Yes, Lancreste,” said Barbara, her heart melting a little not only at the compliment but also at the sight of so much embarrassment and distress. “Yes, of course—but I
am
a little busy at the moment. Perhaps you could bring her to tea this afternoon. How would that do?”

“It's the bazaar,” he reminded her. “I've got to go to it. Mother has roped me in. I've got to look after Miss Walters and see she has tea and all that.”

“That
will
be nice,” said Barbara.

“It will be frightful,” replied Lancreste. “What am I to say to her? I don't know how to talk to authors.”

“Talk about her books, of course.”

“But I haven't read any of them!”

“You must borrow one and read it this afternoon.”

“I suppose I must,” said Lancreste miserably.

“Why did they choose you,” began Barbara, for it seemed a strange choice. Mr. Marvell would have entertained Miss Walters very much better; he would have taken her in his stride.

“You may well ask,” interrupted Lancreste. “That's what I said to Mother—I said, ‘Why pick on me?'…and why on earth was I such a stooge as to say I would do it? I must have been mad.”

“It will be all right,” said Barbara comfortingly.

He sighed heavily and then continued in a different tone of voice, “So you see I can't do anything about Pearl this afternoon…so if you could just come
now
and let me introduce Pearl…Oh, here she is!”

Here she was, for she had grown tired of waiting outside. She stood at Barbara's elbow, waiting to be introduced and Barbara was obliged to make the best of it. She had been willing to do what she could for Lancreste's friend but when she saw Miss Pearl Besserton she had a feeling that very little could be done—even with the best will in the world—for Miss Besserton was not Barbara's cup of tea. And Barbara was aware that, unless you can find some common ground upon which to meet, there is not much use meeting a person. It was not so much her appearance—though that was startling enough, for she looked as if she had stepped straight off the stage of a third-rate music hall without having taken the trouble to remove the grease paint—it was her personality that alienated Barbara's sympathy. It's no good at all, thought Barbara as she extended her hand and murmured a conventional greeting.

“I'm okay,” replied Miss Besserton.

“Pearl is staying in Wandlebury,” babbled Lancreste. “She's taken rooms. It's nice for me having her here when I'm on leave but she's finding it rather dull.”

“Dull's the word,” said Miss Besserton.

Barbara heard herself issuing a general invitation to come to tea any day that was convenient—she could do no less—and after a few minutes of somewhat strained conversation the two young people left the shop.

“I find I can let you 'ave some liver,” said Mr. Bones, who had been waiting for the conversation to end. “It was Mrs. Dance 'oo 'ad the liver last week.”

“Oh good!” said Barbara, beaming on him.

“And you can 'ave your ration in steak.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Barbara. “It's exactly what I wanted…and what about a little suet, Mr. Bones?”

“
If
I can manage it, Mrs. Habbott,” said Mr. Bones grandly. “
If
I can manage it I will personally see that a few hounces of suet goes with your horder.”

Barbara came out into the square and looked up and down, but there was no sign of Sarah. Sarah had vanished completely, and that was a pity because
here
was Mr. Marvell, who was one of the sights of Wandlebury! Barbara greeted him and asked him to tea tomorrow—and Mr. Marvell accepted. She met Archie Chevis-Cobbe (Jerry's brother) and asked him, too, and Archie replied that tea parties were not in his line but he would look in about six and have a chat with Arthur. After that Barbara's tea party grew rapidly, for she met “everybody,” and she wanted “everybody” to meet Sarah. What was the use of having a delightful guest and hiding her under a bushel! None at all, thought Barbara as she went on her way, gathering food, meeting people, explaining about Sarah, and scattering invitations right and left. Oddly enough everybody accepted and quite a number of people said might they bring someone else—a son or daughter on leave or a sister who had come down from London for a rest—and to all these requests Barbara replied, “Yes, of course. How nice!” for she was of a hospitable nature.

Meanwhile Sarah had been prowling about the yard at the Apollo and Boot, trying hard to shut her eyes to the very modern streamlined Humber (which belonged to a visiting general and was being washed by his perspiring driver) and to conjure up in its place a coach and four resembling the illustration in John's
Pickwick
Papers.
She tried so hard and stood there for so long with her eyes closed that Mr. Grace came out of the bar and asked if she were feeling poorly and suggested a small brandy or a glass of port. Sarah refused politely and said that the sun was very bright…and then she came out into the square and met Barbara face to face.

“My dear!” cried Barbara, seizing her arm. “I thought you were lost!”

Sarah explained what she had been doing—or trying to do—and added that it had not been much of a success, and Barbara, who was always ready to enter into the experiences of her friends with heart and soul, immediately entered into Sarah's.

“It's the smell,” said Barbara with conviction. “The smell of petrol. Ghosts hate the smell of petrol. I've often thought that if you wanted to get rid of ghosts (to disinfect a house like they did in the papers the other day) you could do it quite easily by sprinkling petrol about. I wouldn't, of course, because it would be such a waste—and anyhow we haven't any petrol except what Arthur requires for his work—but you see what I mean.” Sarah saw.

“I've been looking for you everywhere,” continued Barbara. “I've been walking up and down and around and around and meeting everybody I knew—and I've asked them to tea.”

“Oh, Barbara!”

“I couldn't help it,” explained Barbara apologetically. “It just happened. Have you noticed that if you think of giving a party you either find that nobody can come at all or else everybody can come and wants to bring somebody else? We aren't at the end of it yet,” predicted Barbara. “You'll see, Sarah. The telephone will ring and ring and the party will grow and grow.”

“But what will you do?” asked Sarah in dismay. “How on earth are you going to feed them?”

“We'll make sandwiches,” said Barbara, happily. “There are still some raspberries in the garden…it doesn't matter, really. People don't expect much nowadays.”

The town hall was decorated with flags and flowers and furnished with several large trestle tables upon which was displayed a curious collection of knickknacks and infants' garments and fancy-work representing the labor of the Wandlebury Ladies' Sewing Party for the last year. As a rule this bazaar was an enormous success and earned large checks that were dispatched to deserving objects with the Wandlebury ladies' compliments but this year things had proved much more difficult, and Barbara—as she looked around the hall—decided that the check would not be as large as usual. There was no dearth of buyers—nor sellers either—the dearth was in the merchandise.

“It's a poor show,” yelled Mrs. Fitch to her sister, Miss Wotton, who was as deaf as a post. “Yes, I said it was a poor show.”

“It's wonderful,” declared Barbara, rounding upon the sisters with flashing eyes. “It's wonderful that there's anything here at all.”

“They won't make much,” shouted Mrs. Fitch, who was so used to conversing with her sister that she conversed with everybody in the same stentorian tones. “It would have been better not to have it at all—that's what I think.”

Barbara had been thinking the same but now she changed her mind and was about to argue the point heatedly when Sarah tugged at her sleeve.

“There will be nothing left to buy,” whispered Sarah. “I mean if you want to buy anything.”

They pushed on through the crowd, stopping to speak to various people Barbara knew and then pushing on again. Barbara had set out with the benevolent intention of buying something at every stall, and her encounter with Mrs. Fitch had confirmed this intention into a resolution. She bought a duck and a large turnip at the produce stall, and she bought a pair of khaki socks, which would do for Sam. She bought a basket and a black doll made out of a stocking and a tin with spills in it, which would do for Arthur to light his pipe. Sarah was much too wise to offer to relieve her friend of any of these purchases for she was aware that people who bought things at bazaars preferred to carry them, themselves. (She remembered going to a bazaar with Mrs. Featherstone Hogg and how angry she had been with that lady for insisting upon carrying everything that she—Sarah—had bought. Of course everyone had thought that Mrs. Featherstone Hogg had behaved with lavish generosity, and Sarah with unaccustomed meanness.)

Sarah had expected to be slightly bored at the Wandlebury Ladies' Bazaar, but she had forgotten that it was impossible to be bored with Barbara at your side. Barbara was a sort of magnet, she attracted funny little incidents as a magnet attracts steel, and, this being so, Sarah began to enjoy herself in a slightly malicious way. She noticed that, although Barbara's manner was more assured, she was still nervous when it behooved her to speak to people she did not like. It was therefore quite easy to discern which of her neighbors she liked and trusted and which she did not.

“That's Mrs. Dance,” said Barbara, gripping Sarah's arm. “I shall have to introduce you to her.”

“Why?” inquired Sarah, who felt she could do quite nicely without the lady's acquaintance.

“She's the vicar's wife,” hissed Barbara. “And that's Marguerite—her daughter—
she's worse
.”

Marguerite Dance was presiding over the “white elephant” stall, which was by far the best furnished stall in the place. It was really very strange to see the collection of objects people had discarded as being of no further use to them; they ranged in size from a nursery fire-guard to a needle book—without needles in it, of course. Marguerite considered herself a “good saleswoman” and was determined to screw as much out of Mrs. Abbott as she could.

“Oh, Mrs. Abbott!” exclaimed Marguerite with a simpering smile. “I've been keeping these vases specially for you. So very striking, aren't they? Several people wanted to buy them but I managed to head them off.”

“They aren't very pretty,” said Barbara doubtfully.

“So striking,” said Marguerite, handing them over. “And only thirty shillings for the pair. I thought of you the moment I saw them. ‘Those will do beautifully for Mrs. Abbott,' I said.” Barbara took them and paid for them—there was nothing else to be done.

Meanwhile Sarah, who had been poking about on her own, had discovered a delightful little seascape, its charms somewhat obscured by a cumbersome gilt frame, and as she knew a little about pictures she was not surprised when she discovered that it was signed by a well-known academician. John will like it, thought Sarah, and she asked the price.

“Half a crown,” said Marguerite, glancing at it.

“Half a crown!” echoed Sarah in surprise.

“Two shillings, then,” said Marguerite hastily.

Sarah was so annoyed with the girl on Barbara's behalf that she handed over the two shillings and put the picture under her arm.

“It's quite a nice frame,” said Marguerite, in a patronizing tone. “You could touch it up if you got a little bottle of gilt paint.”

“I shall use it for lighting the fire,” replied Sarah with a brilliant smile and she hastened after Barbara, who had moved on to another stall.

After having completed this somewhat curious transaction Sarah was assailed by a qualm of conscience (for the money was to go to charity, was it not) but she soothed it away by telling herself that she would give Barbara thirty shillings for the vases and so make everything right. I can't take them home, of course, she thought with a shudder as she looked at them, tucked under Barbara's arm. I shall have to get rid of them somehow—perhaps I could leave them in the train.

“There's Jerry!” exclaimed Barbara in delighted tones. “And Markie, too. I specially wanted you to meet Markie. Isn't it lucky?”

Jerry looked different in her “dressed up” clothes. She looked just a trifle self-conscious. Beside her was a short, thick-set woman in a black coat with gray frizzy hair and a large pale face…so that's the paragon, thought Sarah with amusement. Miss Marks was talking to the vicar (there was no doubt about the vicar for he was more like a vicar than any vicar that Sarah had ever seen in her life) and as Sarah and Barbara approached Miss Marks was saying earnestly:

“But I don't think it is quite right to pray for victory. I just pray that the enemy may be frightened and run away.”

“Let their bones turn to water,” said Mr. Dance in a booming voice.

“Exactly,” agreed Miss Marks. She stepped back a pace as she spoke, for Mr. Dance was the sort of speaker who is more bearable at a slight distance, and as she stepped back she bumped Barbara's arm and one of the hideous vases fell on the floor. It burst like a bomb, scattering pieces far and wide and frightening the bystanders considerably.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Barbara.

“Oh
dear!
” cried Miss Marks. “Oh, Mrs. Abbott, how clumsy of me! I had no idea there was anybody behind me—I can't tell you how sorry I am. Oh dear, it is most distressing!”

“It doesn't matter,” said Barbara hastily. “Please don't worry, Markie. They aren't very pretty and anyhow I've still got one.”

“Oh dear!” cried Miss Marks, wringing her hands. “I wouldn't have had this happen for anything—so clumsy—and one vase is no use at all. Would it be possible for me to buy you another, I wonder.”

This was a frightful thought and Sarah could not bear it. She bumped against Barbara's elbow and the second vase immediately leapt from the crook of Barbara's arm and flung itself onto the
debris
of its companion.

“There,” exclaimed Barbara, somewhat inadequately—and she began to laugh. Everyone laughed, even the people who had been frightened, even Markie was forced to laugh…

Sarah recovered first, perhaps because she was feeling a little guilty. She bent down and began to collect the pieces and she was assisted in this necessary task by a large man in a tweed suit who obviously belonged to the Ganthorne party. She had not been introduced to any of the Ganthorne party, for Barbara had been much too excited to observe the conventions, but the holocaust of vases had broken the ice and made introductions superfluous. The tall man—he was very nice-looking, Sarah noticed—spread his handkerchief on the floor and began to gather the pieces into it.

“Odd, isn't it?” he said in a nice deep bass voice.

“What's odd?” asked Sarah. “Look out, that's an awfully jagged bit!”

“Odd that anyone should have thought them worth making. Must have taken hours to make, I suppose.”

“Dusting them, too,” suggested Sarah with a sigh.

“Nobody will ever dust them again,” he reminded her.

“No,” agreed Sarah, picking up two more pieces from under Mr. Dance's large flat feet.

“Their life is over,” continued Sarah's assistant, rising from his crouching position and dusting his hands. “They can no longer offend the eye by their excruciating form and lamentable color. May I offer you my congratulations, Mrs.—er—”

“Walker,” said Sarah, smiling.

“Oh!
You're
Mrs. Walker!” he exclaimed. “Jerry told me about you—I'm Jerry's brother—Chevis-Cobbe is my name.”

“You're a little like Jerry,” said Sarah, who had been wondering why his face seemed vaguely familiar.

“We're supposed to be alike, but I can't see it. Let's have tea together, shall we?”

Sarah refused somewhat regretfully. She was aware that Barbara intended to go home to tea.

“Oh well, I shall see you tomorrow,” said Mr. Chevis-Cobbe. “Meanwhile I had better dispose of the body.” He pushed off through the crowd carrying the handkerchief and its contents very carefully.

“That's Jerry's brother,” said Barbara—quite unnecessarily of course. “That's Archie Chevis-Cobbe…and now I must introduce you to Colonel Melton—over there in uniform. He's the colonel of Jerry's battalion,” added Barbara, who always referred to the 7th Westshire Regiment in this unorthodox way.

“About the vases, Barbara,” began Sarah.

“It doesn't matter a bit,” said Barbara firmly and she gave her friend's arm a little squeeze. “Don't worry about the vases—I don't think Arthur would have liked them.”

Sarah had intended to explain that she would pay Barbara for the vases—because of the picture still safely under her arm—but she realized in time that the affair was somewhat complicated and decided to wait until they were alone.

“We must go,” said Jerry, appearing suddenly from amongst the crowd with her arms of bulb-bowls and knitted garments. “Markie and I must go or we shall lose the bus. We can't stay and see Miss Walters.”

“Oh Jerry!” exclaimed Barbara in dismay.

“It doesn't matter,” said Jerry. “Her books are loathsome. I'll look in and see you tomorrow on my way home from the town,” and so saying she pushed her way through the crowd and disappeared from view.

“And now we've lost the colonel!” said Barbara. “It's a pity because you would have liked Colonel Melton…but never mind. I must hurry up and buy something from Miss Linton at the cake and candy stall or there will be nothing left.”

There was nothing left
now
—so Sarah observed—nothing except a very handsome cake that stood upon a raised block in the middle of the table. This large cake had been baked by Miss Linton with her own hands and for its sake she had given up her personal ration of sugar and butter and dried fruit for three long weeks. Miss Linton explained all this to Barbara in an undertone, and was suitably praised.

“And this is Mrs. Cole,” said Barbara, introducing Sarah to a thin toothy woman with a pleasant smile. “Mrs. Cole has done a tremendous lot for the bazaar. She's Mr. Marvell's sister…and here's Mr. Marvell, himself,” added Barbara in delighted tones.

Sarah was interested to behold Mr. Marvell. He was a painter, and Jerry had described him as a bounding buffalo. He was certainly very big, and he looked even larger than he really was on account of his somewhat ungainly movements.

“Ah, a cake!” exclaimed Mr. Marvell in a voice that matched his size. “A noble cake, if I may say so!”

Miss Linton simpered. The supererogation of her rations had been hard but she was reaping her reward.

“Is it for sale?” inquired Mr. Marvell.

“No, but you can take a ticket for it, Mr. Marvell.”

“A raffle, I suppose.”

“Oh no, that's against the law,” cried Miss Linton in horrified tones. “You must guess how much it weighs and if you're right you win it.”

“And thus the law is fulfilled,” boomed Mr. Marvell, fishing in his pocket for a shilling.

“Look!” exclaimed Mrs. Cole. “There she is! I
do
love her books, don't you?”

“Charming,” agreed Mr. Marvell, but whether he referred to the books or to their author, who had just appeared on the platform, Sarah could not determine.

“So clean,” said Mrs. Cole—and, presumably, it was the books she meant.

“Charming, charming,” repeated Mr. Marvell, gazing across the crowded hall and registering admiration and delight.

Miss Walters was certainly easy on the eye. She was small and slight and graceful, and was dressed in pale pink with a frilly sort of collar and a picture hat. Her features were regular and well-formed and she had a delightful pink-and-white complexion. Pretty, thought Sarah, and much younger than I expected…nicer than I expected, too.

There were several other women on the platform—the committee of the WLSP. One of them stepped forward and introduced the speaker in the following terms:

“Ladies and gentlemen, you all know what the bazaar is for. It's for home missions this year. Home missions have got to go on in war-time, in fact they are—er—more important than ever so we want to raise as much money as we possibly can, because—er—because it's so very important to keep home missions going. We mustn't let them down. I am not going to say any more because I know everyone will do their best and of course you are all longing to hear what Miss Janetta Walters is going to say…and of course I am, too. We are all very pleased and proud to have Miss Walters here today to speak to us. She has come over from Foxstead on purpose to—to speak to us and it really is very good of her to come, because we all know how busy she is. It must take a long time to write books—especially books like Miss Walters's, which everyone enjoys so much—so it really is very good of her to spare a little time to come and speak. I'm sure you'll all agree.”