The Two Mrs. Abbotts Read online

  “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.”

  Loud clapping proclaimed that everyone agreed. The chairwoman smiled complacently, waited for the noise to subside, and then continued:

  “I’m not going to say any more because of course no one wants to listen to me when they can hear Miss Walters, but I just want to say how grateful we are to everyone who has helped us, and sent flowers to decorate the hall and—and decorations. And of course we are grateful to all the people who helped to decorate it. Everyone has taken such a lot of trouble, in fact everyone has been quite splendid, and I feel sure we shall raise ever so much more than we expect for home missions—or—well, I won’t keep you any longer because I know you all want to hear Miss Janetta Walters.” Miss Walters came forward. She looked a little shy, Sarah thought, and liked her all the better for it. There really was something very attractive about her, and her voice was pleasant and clear. She made quite a neat little speech, Sarah thought.

  Chapter Six

  Miss Janetta Walters

  There were two young men in air-force blue waiting for Miss Walters when she stepped off the platform; for Lancreste had been fortunate enough to run across a friend in the Apollo and Boot, to which hostelry he had repaired—just before the bazaar opened—to obtain a little Dutch courage for his part in the proceedings. It had not been easy to induce Tom Ash to come, but Lancreste had used all his persuasive powers, and these, reinforced by a couple of whiskies and sodas, had done the trick. Mr. Ash was a few months older than Lancreste; he was a lieutenant and sported pilot’s wings. He had flown over Germany fourteen times. He had been to Berlin and Wilhelmshaven. Ham, Cologne, and several other centers of Axis industry had been the worse for Mr. Ash’s attentions…on two occasions Mr. Ash had descended by parachute from a disabled plane. All these things Mr. Ash had accomplished without turning a hair for they were merely part of his job—but he had never taken tea with an author before. The effect of the whiskies and sodas and of Lancreste’s eloquence was wearing off and Mr. Ash was nervous. “Great snakes, I must have been dotty,” he whispered to himself as he followed
Miss Walters and Lancreste to the tea room.

  The tea room was empty. They settled themselves at a table in the corner and ordered tea—at least Lancreste ordered it; Mr. Ash seemed to have lost the use of his tongue.

  “Ash is a pilot,” Lancreste said. “Ash goes to Germany and all that. Don’t you, Ash?”

  “Yes,” said Ash.

  “How interesting!” exclaimed Miss Walters.

  “Ash baled out in the drink the other day. Didn’t you, Ash?”

  “Yes,” said Ash.

  Miss Walters looked a trifle puzzled.

  “Tell her about it, Ash,” said Lancreste.

  They waited for him to begin but, despite anguished glances from his friend and a couple of somewhat painful kicks on the shin bone, Ash remained as dumb as an oyster. If the author had been an elderly woman Ash might have been able to speak to her, but she was much younger than he had expected and quite good looking with fair hair and rather nice brown eyes. The effect was spoilt—or so Ash thought—by her fluffiness. She had fluffy hair in curls and fluffy clothes. Ash liked good lines. His bomber—he called her Sybil—had marvelous lines. She was his only love. He compared Miss Walters with Sybil to the detriment of the former.

  All this time Lancreste had been struggling manfully with the conversation. He had been struggling so hard that Miss Walters had no chance of taking a hand in it and putting him at his ease, but now Lancreste had shot his bolt, he had exhausted the subject of the weather and he could think of nothing more to say. There was a jar of sweet peas on the table. Miss Walters leaned forward and smelt them.

  “They’re your favorite flowers,” said Lancreste with sudden inspiration.