Miss Buncle's Book Read online

  Copyright © 2012 by the Estate of D. E. Stevenson

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  First published in 1936 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd. Previously published in the UK in 2010 by Persephone Books Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily).

  Miss Buncle’s book / D.E. Stevenson.

  p. cm.

  “First published in 1936 by Herbert Jenkins Ltd. Previously published in the UK in 2010 by Persephone Books Ltd.”

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Women authors, English—Fiction. 2. Cities and towns—England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6037.T458M57 2012

  823’.912—dc23

  2012020973

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One: Breakfast Rolls

  Chapter Two: Disturber of the Peace

  Chapter Three: Mrs. Greensleeves

  Chapter Four: Mr. Hathaway

  Chapter Five: Mrs. Walker

  Chapter Six: Mrs. Carter’s Tea Party

  Chapter Seven: First Fruits

  Chapter Eight: Miss King and Mr. Abbott

  Chapter Nine: Mrs. Bulmer

  Chapter Ten: “Feu De Joie”

  Chapter Eleven: Colonel Weatherhead and the Bishop

  Chapter Twelve: Mrs. Featherstone Hogg

  Chapter Thirteen: Colonel Weatherhead and Mrs. Bold

  Chapter Fourteen: Sunday and Monday

  Chapter Fifteen: More about Monday

  Chapter Sixteen: The Drawing-Room Meeting

  Chapter Seventeen: Inspiration

  Chapter Eighteen: A History Lesson

  Chapter Nineteen: Miss Buncle’s Holiday

  Chapter Twenty: Chiefly about Sally

  Chapter Twenty-One: Mrs. Snowdon’s Memorial

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Children’s Party at The Riggs

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Miss Buncle’s Day in Town

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Pen Is Mightier—

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Miss Buncle and Mr. Abbott

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Colonel and Mrs. Weatherhead

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Sally’s Secret

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: John Smith

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Chapter One

  Breakfast Rolls

  One fine summer’s morning the sun peeped over the hills and looked down upon the valley of Silverstream. It was so early that there was really very little for him to see except the cows belonging to Twelve-Trees Farm in the meadows by the river. They were going slowly up to the farm to be milked. Their shadows were still quite black, weird, and ungainly, like pictures of prehistoric monsters moving over the lush grass. The farm stirred and a slow spiral of smoke rose from the kitchen chimney.

  In the village of Silverstream (which lay further down the valley) the bakery woke up first, for there were the breakfast rolls to be made and baked. Mrs. Goldsmith saw to the details of the bakery herself and prided herself upon the punctuality of her deliveries. She bustled round, wakening her daughters with small ceremony, kneading the dough for the rolls, directing the stoking of the ovens, and listening with one ear for the arrival of Tommy Hobday who delivered the rolls to Silverstream before he went to school.

  Tommy had been late once or twice lately; she had informed his mother that if he were late again she would have to find another boy. She did not think Tommy would be late again, but, if he were, she must try and find another boy, it was so important for the rolls to be out early. Colonel Weatherhead (retired) was one of her best customers and he was an early breakfaster. He lived in a gray stone house down near the bridge—The Bridge House—just opposite to Mrs. Bold at Cozy Neuk. Mrs. Bold was a widow. She had nothing to drag her out of bed in the morning, and, therefore, like a sensible woman, she breakfasted late. It was inconvenient from the point of view of breakfast rolls that two such near neighbors should want their rolls at different hours. Then, at the other end of the village, there was the Vicar. Quite new, he was, and addicted to early services on the birthdays of Saints. Not only the usual Saints that everybody knew about, but all sorts of strange Saints that nobody in Silverstream had ever heard of before; so you never knew when the Vicarage would be early astir. In Mr. Dunn’s time it used to slumber peacefully until its rolls arrived, but now, instead of being the last house on Tommy’s list, it had to be moved up quite near the top. Very awkward it was, because that end of the village, where the old gray sixteenth-century church rested so peacefully among the tombstones, had been all late breakfasters and therefore safe to be left until the end of Tommy’s round. Miss Buncle, at Tanglewood Cottage, for instance, had breakfast at nine o’clock, and old Mrs. Carter and the Bulmers were all late.

  The hill was a problem too, for there were six houses on the hill and in them dwelt Mrs. Featherstone Hogg (there was a Mr. Featherstone Hogg too, of course, but he didn’t count, nobody ever thought of him except as Mrs. Featherstone Hogg’s husband) and Mrs. Greensleeves, and Mr. Snowdon and his two daughters, and two officers from the camp, Captain Sandeman and Major Shearer, and Mrs. Dick who took in gentlemen paying guests, all clamoring for their rolls early—except, of course, Mrs. Greensleeves, who breakfasted in bed about ten o’clock, if what Milly Spikes said could be believed.

  Mrs. Goldsmith shoved her trays of neatly made rolls into the oven and turned down her sleeves thoughtfully. Now if only the Vicar lived on the hill, and Mrs. Greensleeves in the Vicarage, how much easier it would be! The whole of the hill would be early, and Church End would be all late. No need then to buy a bicycle for Tommy. As it was, something must be done, either a bicycle or an extra boy—and boys were such a nuisance.

  Miss King and Miss Pretty dwelt in the High Street next door to Dr. Walker in an old house behind high stone walls. They had nine o’clock breakfast, of course, being ladies of leisure, but the rest of the High Street was early. Pursuing her previous thoughts, and slackening her activities a little, now that the rolls were safely in the oven, Mrs. Goldsmith moved the ladies into the Colonel’s house by the bridge, and the gallant Colonel, with all his goods and chattels, was dumped into Durward Lodge next door to Dr. Walker.

  These pleasant dreams were interrupted by the noisy entrance of Tommy and his baskets. No time for dreams now.

  “Is this early enough for you?” he inquired. “Not
ready yet? Dear me! I’ve been up for hours, I ’ave.”

  “Less of your cheek, Tommy Hobday,” replied Mrs. Goldsmith firmly.

  ***

  At this very moment an alarm clock started to vibrate furiously in Tanglewood Cottage. The clock was in the maid’s bedroom, of course. Dorcas turned over sleepily and stretched out one hand to still its clamor. Drat the thing, she felt as if she had only just got into bed. How short the nights were! She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed her eyes. Her feet found a pair of ancient bedroom slippers—which had once belonged to Miss Buncle—and she was soon shuffling about the room and splashing her face in the small basin which stood in the corner in a three-corner-shaped washstand with a hole in the middle. Dorcas was so used to all this that she did it without properly waking up. In fact it was not until she had shuffled down to the kitchen, boiled the kettle over the gas ring, and made herself a pot of tea that she could be said to be properly awake. This was the best cup of the day and she lingered over it, feeling somewhat guilty at wasting the precious moments, but enjoying it all the more for that.

  Dorcas had been at Tanglewood Cottage for more years than she cared to count; ever since Miss Buncle had been a small fat child in a basket-work pram. First of all she had been the small, fat child’s nurse, and then her maid. Then Mrs. Buncle’s parlor maid left and Dorcas had taken on the job; sometimes, in domestic upheavals, she had found herself in the role of cook. Time passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Buncle departed full of years to a better land and Dorcas—who was now practically one of the family—stayed on with Miss Buncle—no longer a fat child—as cook, maid, and parlor maid combined. She was now a small, wizened old woman with bright beady eyes, but in spite of her advancing years she was strong and able for more work than many a young girl in her teens.

  “Lawks!” she exclaimed suddenly, looking up at the clock. “Look at the time, and the drawing-room to be done yet—I’m all behind, like a cow’s tail.”

  She whisked the tea things into the sink and bustled round the kitchen putting things to rights, then, seizing the broom and the dusters out of the housemaid’s cupboards, she rushed into Miss Buncle’s drawing-room like a small but extremely violent tornado.

  Breakfast was all ready on the dining-room table when Miss Buncle came down at nine o’clock precisely. The rolls had come, and the postman was handing in the letters at the front door. Miss Buncle pounced upon the letters eagerly; most of them were circulars but there was one long thin envelope with a London postmark addressed to “John Smith, Esq.” Miss Buncle had been expecting a communication for John Smith for several weeks, but now that it had come she was almost afraid to open it. She turned it over in her hands waiting until Dorcas had finished fussing round the breakfast table.

  Dorcas was interested in the letter, but she realized that Miss Buncle was waiting for her to depart, so at last she departed reluctantly. Miss Buncle tore it open and spread it out. Her hands were shaking so that she could scarcely read it.

  ABBOTT & SPICER

  Publishers

  Brummel Street,

  London EC4

  —th July.

  Dear Mr. Smith,

  I have read Chronicles of an English Village and am interested in it. Could you call at my office on Wednesday morning at twelve o’clock? If this is not convenient to you I should be glad if you will suggest a suitable day.

  Yours faithfully,

  A. Abbott

  “Goodness!” exclaimed Miss Buncle aloud. “They are going to take it.”

  She rushed into the kitchen to tell Dorcas the amazing news.

  Chapter Two

  Disturber of the Peace

  Mr. Abbott looked at the clock several times as he went through his business on Wednesday morning. He was excited at the prospect of the interview with John Smith. Years of publishing had failed to dim his enthusiasms or to turn him into a soured and bitter pessimist. Every new and promising author found favor in his eyes. He had given up trying to predict the success or unsuccess of the novels he published, but he went on publishing them and hoping that each one published would prove itself a bestseller.

  Last Friday morning his nephew, Sam Abbott, who had just been taken into the firm of Abbott & Spicer, suddenly appeared in Mr. Abbott’s sanctum with a deplorable lack of ceremony and announced, “Uncle Arthur, the feller who wrote this book is either a genius or an imbecile.”

  Something stirred in Mr. Abbott’s heart at these words (a sort of sixth sense perhaps), and he had held out his hand for the untidy-looking manuscript with a feeling of excitement—was this the bestseller at last?

  His sensible, publishing, businessman-self had warned him that Sam was new to the job, and had reminded him of other lamentable occasions when authors who had promised to be swans had turned out disappointing geese, but the flame which burned within him leaped to the challenge.

  The manuscript had gone home with him that night, and he was still reading it at 2 a.m. Still reading it, and still in doubt. Making allowances for the exaggeration due to his youth and inexperience Sam had been right about Chronicles of an English Village, and Mr. Abbott could not but endorse his opinion. It was not written by a genius, of course, neither was it the babblings of an imbecile; but the author of it was either a very clever man writing with his tongue in his cheek, or else a very simple person writing in all good faith.

  Whichever he was, Mr. Abbott was in no two opinions about publishing him. The Autumn List was almost complete, but room should be made for Chronicles of an English Village.

  As Mr. Abbott turned out his light—about 3 a.m.—and snuggled down comfortably in bed, his mind was already busy on the blurb that should introduce this unusual book to the notice of the world. The author might have his own ideas about the blurb, of course, but Mr. Abbott decided that it must be very carefully worded so as to give no clue—no clue whatever—as to whether the book was a delicate satire (comparable only with the first chapter of Northanger Abbey) or merely a chronicle of events seen through the innocent eyes of a simpleton.

  It was really a satire, of course, thought Mr. Abbott, closing his eyes—that love scene in the moonlit garden for instance, and the other one where the young bank clerk serenaded his cruel love with a mandolin, and the two sedate ladies buying riding breeches and setting off for the Far East—and yet there was simplicity about the whole thing, a freshness like the fragrance of new mown hay.

  New mown hay, that was good, thought Mr. Abbott. Should “new mown hay” go into the blurb or should it be left to the reader to discover? What fools the public were! They were exactly like sheep…thought Mr. Abbott sleepily…following each other’s lead, neglecting one book and buying another just because other people were buying it, although, for the life of you, you couldn’t see what the one lacked and the other possessed. But this book, said Mr. Abbott to himself, this book must go—it should be made to go. Pleasant visions of bookstalls piled with neat copies of Chronicles of an English Village and the public clamoring for more editions passed dreamily through his mind.

  The author must come and see him, thought Mr. Abbott, coming back from the verge of sleep. He would know then, once he had seen the man, whether the book was a satire or a straight story, and he must know that (the mystery intrigued him) but nobody else should know. John Smith must be bidden to the office at the earliest possible moment for there was no time to waste if the book was to go into the Autumn List—John Smith, what a name! An assumed name, of course, and rather a good one considering the nature of the book.

  Sleep hovered over Mr. Abbott darkly; it descended upon him with outstretched wings.

  On Saturday evening, after a day’s golf, Mr. Abbott read the book again. He took it into his hands with some trepidation. It was probably not so good as he had thought—things looked different at 2:00 a.m. He would be disappointed when he reread the thin
g.

  But Mr. Abbott was not the least bit disappointed when he reread the thing; it was just as good today as it had been last night—in fact it was better, for he knew the end and could now appreciate the finer points. It made him chuckle, it kept him glued to his chair till the small hours, it drifted along and he drifted along with it and time was not. It was the characterization, Mr. Abbott decided, that made the book. The people were all so real; every single character was convincing. Every single character breathed the breath of life. There was not a flat two-dimensional character in the book—rather unusual that! There were glaring faults of construction in the thing (in fact there was not much attempt at construction about it)—obviously a tyro, this John Smith! And yet, was he? And yet, was he? Weren’t the very faults of construction part of the book’s charm?

  The first part of Chronicles of an English Village was a humdrum sort of affair—it was indeed a chronicle of life in an English village. It might have been dull if the people had not been so well drawn, or if the writing had not been of that amazing simplicity which kept one wondering whether it were intended to be satirical or not. The second part was a sort of fantasy: a golden boy walked through the village playing on a reed pipe, and his music roused the villagers to strange doings. It was queer, it was unusual, it was provocative, and, strangely enough, it was also extremely funny. Mr. Abbott was aware, from personal experience, that you could not lay it down until the end.

  The name of the book was poor, Mr. Abbott thought. Chronicles of an English Village sounded dull; but another name could easily be found, a name that would focus light on the principal incident in the book, the incident upon which the whole story turned. What about “The Golden Boy” or “The Piper Passes”? Perhaps the latter was too sophisticated for such an artless (or was it an artful) story. It might be called “Disturber of the Peace,” thought Mr. Abbott. Yes, that was rather good. It had the right ring about it; it was easy to remember; it cast the necessary light upon the boy. He would suggest the title to John Smith.