It was a perfect morning. Outside the window the birds had already done their bit for the minstrel trade and had settled to a hard day's work in the vegetable garden, with only the odd busking thrush left to disturb the bees at their daily rounds. The rooster - having caught a sufficiency of worms while declaring the dawn some three hours earlier - was telling himself it was time for a quick snooze before lunch. The nightingales in the thicket by the lake were wondering how they were going to get through the interminable hours of daylight and were contemplating the odd burst of song to keep in trim for their evening performance. Everything, in short, was as right with the world as an English spring could make it.
The ancient manor house slumbered in the morning sun, its weathered rooftiles already warm under the golden light. The front door, hardened oak so old it had turned black with the passing years - the sort of door that had welcomed brides, waved farewell to sons off to the colonies, that had stood austerely aside as a coffin made its short journey to the estate church - was now open to the balmy air. A stout motherly woman standing on the mat just inside shook a duster in a desultory fashion as she drank in the scents of the day. Upstairs all the curtains were drawn, even in the master bedroom where slept the owner, sole possessor and guardian of all this beauty, Peregrine Merlin Houghton, son and heir of Rear Admiral Merlin Peregrine Houghton DSO, RN, deceased. The sun shouldered aside the bedroom curtains in no uncertain manner and strode athletically up to Peregrine's bed. The last of the Houghtons slept the sleep of the just, slept as only a man who is his own master and who has no care in the world can sleep. Flirtatiously the rays jumped up onto the duvet and elbowed him in the eye. He awoke with a yawn and a smile, turned and looked appreciatively at the neatly coiffed head of his new wife beside him. Her rich red hair glowed on the pillow and he felt a cor
responding glow inside his chest. He still couldn't believe his luck. "I say, darling, wake up...." Her silk-clad shoulder was warm and smooth under his gentle hand. Big green eyes smiled sleepily into his...
The alarm went off. Peregrine Houghton came out of his dream with a broken heart. He had been married to the most beautiful girl in the world, living on the most perfect small estate in England and now he woke to this. He looked around the room. Thin carpets, very well hoovered. Thin curtains, very well washed. Even his well-pressed business suit, hanging on the wardrobe door, was beginning to look shabby. After one appalled and disbelieving look round, Peregrine buried his head under the covers. Nanny Maggs, on time to the second, tapped on the door and surged majestically into the young master's bedroom like an ocean liner docking at Southampton without benefit of tugs. Her presence was such, even through a tog 5 overlay, that Peregrine's head popped out into the light without any volition on his part. He smiled faintly.
> "Morning, Nanny."
She deposited her tray next to the bed.
"'Ere's yer tea, Master Peregrine. Don't let it get cold nar. I'll run yer bath."
"Yes, Nanny. Thank you."
She steamed to the window, drew the curtains, and steamed out. There was no sun outside after all, just another grey London morning. Peregrine slopped across the room, carpet hard beneath his bare feet, and looked out over the acres of grey roofs towards the grey river and the grey towers beyond. He could hardly see the City through the murk, even though he was well above the dirty, streaming streets. As Peregrine stared at the dismal view it began to rain. The great metropolis was set unfair for another damp and depressing spring day.
Peregrine gloomily contemplated the near future. Tuesdays were always difficult. Firstly, there were never any kippers. Nanny Maggs had, for reasons known only to those cognizant with the mysteries of house-keeping, declared Tuesday and Thursday as kipper-free zones. 'Not,' thought Peregrine to himself as he closed the street door behind him and set off along the damp grey pavement, 'not that I am a great eater of kippers.' Sometimes weeks at a time went by and he would be content with the scrambled or poached or fried eggs, the bacon, the toast, that Nanny piled on the chafing dishes each morning, sometimes even ignoring the congealing kipper with a steely indifference while he spooned down the glutinous mass that Mrs Maggs claimed (against all likelihood) to be porridge. Porridge was Saturday. But on Tuesdays and Thursdays, just because the kipper dish was empty, he always felt that only kippers...
"Watch out!"
His thoughts were interrupted. He had nearly walked into the back of a girl hovering indecisively on the edge of the pavement, obviously reluctant to venture out into the road. Her big red umbrella wobbled and Peregrine ducked away, the rib spikes missing his eye by a whisker.
"I say, hang on. Nearly got me there." Two enormous green eyes regarded him. Peregrine smiled weakly. "I mean, could have blinded me. Dashed near thing."
"You should stand further back. I hate men who crowd me." Haughtily she turned away. Lovely eyes, thought Peregrine. Like green jewels. Peridots, that was the name, really clear green. Very striking. They made him think of his dream, of the girl who had woken and smiled as the sun shone through the window of the master bedroom. How different...
"You're in the way, guv. Get a move on."
"What? What's that?" Peregrine looked around. The girl was fifty metres away down the pavement on the other side of the road and he was standing in the middle of the crossing with a press of angry pedestrians jammed up behind him. Hurriedly he set off in pursuit. As she walked south the northerly aspect of her figure attracted Peregrine's unbounded admiration. There was a shimmy about it, a movement at once fluid and firm. There was nothing slim and boyish about this girl, he thought approvingly, she was mature and perfect, built as a woman should be. Briefly thinking how extraordinarily stimulating she would look mounted on a horse he settled into step behind her, watching the shimmy out of the corner of his eye. Slender ankles, lovely...
"Ouch!" He clapped his hand to his smarting cheek where the spike had hit. The girl turned round and her umbrella tilted up, making Peregrine step back, anxious to avoid being spiked again. The green eyes fixed on him from under raised eyebrows. They looked dangerous.
"Did you say something?" Her voice sounded like frosted bells.
"Er, no. No, not at all, something in my eye, sorry, I'm not quite awake yet, all my fault, sorry." He came out of his haze of embarrassment to find he was talking to himself. The girl was on the bus, folding her umbrella as the belching and grubby monster whisked her away into the immense anonymity of London. Peregrine watched her go, his mouth hanging open. Now the red silk of her umbrella had been folded, he could see that her hair was bright pink.
Secondly, (you'll have to go back to find the associated firstly a couple of pages ago: Peregrine could hardly be expected to think coherent thoughts about the problems of Tuesday when he had just seen the best rear elevation in London) there was no lift to take him to work. For some reason Mrs Maggs had failed to arrange his trip to the Club on Tuesdays. Every other day seemed to be no problem, but Tuesdays.... There it was again, Tuesday. He hated Tuesday. So, an hour earlier than normal, he had to take the bus.
There were compensations. He could see the great throbbing heart of London at work, see the bustle of the commoN people as they went about the daily grind. Sometimes the compensations of public transport seemed rather meagre. Today was one of those sometimes. Strap hanging next to a large lady with halitosis and a moustache problem, unable to see through the grimy windows, Peregrine let his mind dwell on the girl. The Girl. How could someone so intrinsically attractive let her hair become that extraordinary colour? Not just pinkish, it had been truly, revoltingly, shocking pink. Such a waste. Such a waist.
She ought to wear green with eyes like that, dark green crushed velvet, something to go with her red hair. Peregrine realised suddenly that he was assuming that the girl had hair like his wife in the dream. He smiled to himself, then noticed that the bus had passed his stop. He was going to have to walk through the rain back to his office. Apologetically he struggled through the crush of dazed and apathetic commuters, got out half way to Green Park, and set off over the damp pavements towards the mellowed stone building which housed the & Gentlemen's Club.
"Mornin', Mr Houghton" said the porter, touching his hat as Peregrine came in through the shining brass and glass revolving door.
"Morning, Dawkins" said Peregrine. None of the members were about yet, just one of the maids sweeping the black and white marble tiles in the main corridor. She bobbed as he went by. He raised an imaginary hat and a smile. At the far end of the corridor, next to the green portal leading into the dark and unexplored regions where the club servants had their realm, he entered his office. On the door, in very small letters, was the inscription:
Mr P M Houghton Club Secretary
Peregrine threw his coat over the back of the only chair in the room, thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets, and gazed out at the rain falling on the dustbins outside his window. He felt despair creeping over his normally cheerful soul. Another day. Worse than that. Another Tuesday.
Half a mile away, by a window looking out to a view as depressing as that which depressed Peregrine, Pippit de Brere prodded gloomily at the keys of her computer. On the left side of the screen was a pile of forms, on the right an empty tray. Her job, the same today as yesterday and the same tomorrow, was to transfer the numbers from the paper to the computer and then place the used sheets in the empty tray. When she had finished that task someone would take the old sheets away and give her another stack in the left hand tray. She worked in a long glass-walled room, surrounded by girls doing the same thing, all of them quicker and more efficient than Pippit, all of them in consequence better paid. She sighed and moved a piece of paper from left to right. She hated Tuesdays. They were the same as every other working day and she hated those as well. If only her hair hadn't turned out that stupid pink colour. The other girls were looking at her, she was sure they were giggling. Another sheet of numbers. Buck up, girl, this won't pay the rent. Setting her teeth, Pippit began to hammer at the computer keyboard and the pile in her right hand tray began to grow. The tray on the left emptied.
A new pile of paper was dumped by a morose and acned youth. Only four days to the weekend. Less if you counted today. Pick up the next sheet, tap in the numbers. Faster and faster. Three and a half days really. Faster. If only she could lose a little weight around her hips. That man at the bus-stop had been nice. Not good-looking exactly, more, well, nice. Honest and reliable and uncomplicated. She could do with a nice man in her life. Left to right. Of course he'd just been looking at her, her... Pippit could not think the word. He'd been staring because he couldn't believe any girl had such a large... Experimentally she tried 'upper rear thighs' in her mind. No, she had to face it. Bottom. Her bottom was too big. Her face felt warm and she realised she was staring at the screen without doing anything. Lethargically she settled down to work. Pippit hated Tuesdays.
Nanny Maggs loved Tuesdays. As soon as the young master had gone she cleared the table and re-set it with the third best crockery, plates and cups and saucers with nice cheerful flowers and lots of golden bits. It was half past eight when the doorbell rang. The angular visitor peered at the sideboard with the silver chafing dishes and sniffed. She knew Daisy Maggs' cooking only too well.
"Mornin', Daisy."
"Mornin', Ivy."
The sisters eyed each other, searching for signs of deterioration since the last time they had met.
"You're looking pale," said Ivy Jenkins as she slid her serpentine shape into the most comfortable chair, the one with a high back and warmth from the electric fire. "I thought so Saturday, I said to Bert, I said, Daisy's looking pale."
Daisy Maggs ignored this opening gambit.
"Still in bed I suppose? My young man's had to go off on the bus again. Taint right really, a gentleman like him on the bus."
Ivy Jenkins bridled.
"No 'arm in that. My Bert does more than enough, working every weekend, can't blame 'im if he sleeps on 'is day off. 'E could 'ardly be expected to get up just so's to take your boy to work, now could 'e? Anyway," she added gnomically, "You never know when it might be useful." They contemplated this statement while Nanny Maggs spooned out the leathery fried bread, the over-crisp bacon and the dry scrambled egg onto the plates. At least the tea was fresh.
"No news on the lease then?"
"Nar." Ivy rooted through her handbag, pulled out a spice jar and sprinkled a little paprika on her scrambled eggs, snapped the pot shut and replaced it. "Jenkins is that scared of his lordship, he won't dare say anything until we're out on the street. I've told him, told him a thousand times. It's not his lordship, he's not the problem, it's the lawyers, they're the ones. Never trusted lawyers I haven't, not since that business with Ma's will. Jenkins won't have it though. He says..." Ivy Jenkins stared short-sightedly at a poached egg which seemed, against all likelihood, to be made of plastic. The egg stared silently back. "He says the old man'd have the skin off yer back and no thank you so long's it made him a brass farthing. There's no denyin' it, not if what the papers say about him is only 'alf true. Mean old sod. But if Bert would only ask, we'd know where we stood then. He can only say no, then we'd start lookin' for a place of our own. Flats, for young people, with me doin' the caterin'. Somewhere nice, like Oxford or that other place, I'd like that."
Daisy Maggs drew herself up, a vast billowing cumulus under her pinny. She looked, as she had looked since the age of fifteen, every inch the nanny.
"At least our 'ouse is our own. Mr 'Oughton, 'e's got a roof over 'is head whatever 'appens. No lease for us. Left to 'im it was in his father's will, clear and unencumbered so the solicitor said. Just as well really, the poor boy's got nothing else in the world. So we're safe." Daisy Maggs could not suppress the smugness in her voice. Ivy thought quickly. There had to be some way to counter this riposte. Inspiration came.
"I'm not sayin' that there's not advantages in ownin' yer own place, but..." She wiped her mouth and looked meaningfully at the teapot. "But when all your gentleman's got in the world is a house and less money than he'd get on the dole, there's no point in getting uppity. Rear Admiral his father may have been, but he didn't provide for his only son and there's an end to it. Not his fault his grandfather sold the estate, but look at the rest, bits sold off until there was nothin left. Too nice by half they were, the Captain an' the Admiral. Not surprisin' this is all young master Peregrine was left. Any more of that bacon?"
Fifteen all. Ivy to serve. She saved her match winner until breakfast was over and Daisy had started to clear the table. "We've got another lodger. Nice girl, didn't make a fuss or nuffin when we showed her round the attic. Said she likes the view. Sweet little girl, real lady, nice manners if you know what I mean, but poor as poor. One shabby suitcase. You can tell, you can always tell when they've been brought up proper. But," added Ivy darkly as she swept out, "I've got me doubts, howmsoever. Pink hair she's got, pink as german measles. What you make of that? 'Tain't natural, is it?" And with a triumphant smile, firmly established in her own mind as a sophisticate with a finger on the pulse of the demi-monde, Ivy Jenkins briskly slammed the door behind her.
.
