Tea & Antipathy (8 page)

“Well, I can't really,” the voice said, through its nose.

“You mean there isn't anything?”

“Well, there used to be a teenage club at the American Air Force base in West Ruyslip, but it's been discontinued.”

“Oh, well, the teenager is relatively easy…”

“You might call the American Air Force base, but I'm afraid they discontinued the club. Still, you might try.”

“I'll try anything,” I said.

A male voice, vaguely Midwestern, answered at the Air Force base. I fought back an impulse to sob. He connected me with a recreation center, where a very Texan lady responded.

“ … and I have these three children,” I said, “but only two of them present a problem. And the woman at the Embassy said you had a teenage program, but you discontinued it, and she said you didn't have anything else.”

“That's not true,” the Texas voice said.

“The woman at the Embassy,” I said.

“She didn't tell you the truth,” the voice said bitterly. “We have a teenage club and we have a pre-teen day camp.”

“You have a pre-teen day camp?”

“Yes, we do. We have a pre-teen day camp and it's open to civilians and all you have to do is get them here at nine o'clock. It runs from nine to four, every other week all summer.”

“Do you have a bus service?”

“No, you have to get them here. I don't know exactly how you'd manage all the way from Knightsbridge.”

“I'll manage,” I said fervently. “I'll get them there.”

I called Jordan at the office. “How are things going?” I asked.

“Uh,” he said.

“Well, anyway, the American Air Force has a day camp at West Ruyslip from nine to four every other week. All I have to do is get them there.”

“Great,” Jordan said. “Wonderful.”

“How do I get them there?”

“Call the minicab people. They'll drive them out there every day.”

“Won't that be expensive?”

“No, it won't. Do you mind if I call you back later? Bill went to the bank to get the payroll money and they're holding him there because there isn't any payroll money.”

“Do you mean they're holding him prisoner?”

“No,” he said irritably, “of course they're not holding him prisoner. They're just holding him. Can I call you back?”

I should mention that at that time it was customary for English companies to pay their employees in cash. Every week Bill went to the bank, cashed a check for the full amount of the
payroll and then got five- and one-pound notes, ten shilling notes, plus a certain number of half crowns, two shilling pieces, shillings, threepenny bits and pence. The resulting heavy brown paper package was brought back to the office; the contents were spread out on Bill's desk and counted into little pay packets for each of the thirty employees. The whole process took more or less half a day. Jordan had asked the staff if they would take checks instead of cash, but they wouldn't consider that.

I phoned the minicab people; the man said going back and forth to West Ruyslip by cab would be too expensive. But, heartened by the knowledge that help existed, I decided to take another stab at finding a laundry. After their phone service had been restored, I had called the Sunlight Laundry every few days, and each time someone at the laundry told me something. Sometimes they told me they came to Knightsbridge on Thursdays; other times they told me they came to Knightsbridge on Mondays; sometimes they told me to call back when the manager was in; and there were times when they told me they did not come to Knightsbridge at all. Today, feeling happy about the day camp, I called a different laundry and made arrangements for Tuesdays, when they seemed to feel they could come to Knightsbridge.

Elated, I flew downstairs to where the children sat listening to Beatles records. “Good news,” I said. “The American Air Force base at West Ruyslip has a day camp every day from nine to four every other week.” Eric looked at me blankly. His mind, I hoped, was on the Beatles and not Hamlet's uncle.

“I'm not going,” Bruce said.

“You have to go,” I said. “It's lots of fun. They have—”

“I'm not going,” Bruce said. “Why do I have to go? I don't want to go. I hate camp.”

“They have games and excursions, all sorts of thing,” I said.

“I hate camp,” Bruce said. “You know I hate camp. You made me go to camp last summer and I broke my toe.”

“We'll discuss it later,” I said.

“There's nothing to discuss,” Bruce said. “What is there to discuss?”

I went upstairs to the bedroom and closed the door. I was reading when Bruce came in.

“I was glad I broke my toe last summer,” he said. “That's how much I hated camp. I'll break something else if you make me go.”

“We'll discuss it later,” I said.

“I refuse to go to camp,” Bruce said. “It's a horrible baby camp. Eric and I will be together, it will be horrible. I'll have to do what the babies do.”

“You don't know whether that's true, and anyway there's nothing else for you to do,” I said, dialing the office.

“I could work for Dad,” Bruce said, “like Mark does. But oh, no, I have to keep Eric company. Now you want me to keep Eric company in camp.”

“Hello?” I said. “How's everything? Did Bill get out?”

“Yes,” Jordan said. “Basil Goldbrick had to go down and sign for him. I think Basil Goldbrick is going to buy into the company. It's either that or curtains.”

“How would you feel about curtains?” I asked.

“I would consider curtains,” he said.

“Everybody will hate me there,” Bruce said. “I'm not going and that's all.”

“How would you feel about dinner out?” I said. “I seem to feel a headache coming on.”

“Oh, I suppose that's my fault you have a headache,” Bruce said. “I suppose if I refuse to go to camp everyone in the house will hate me forever.”

“Okay,” Jordan said. “Who's that talking?”

When he and Mark came home, we ate in Knightsbridge, at a restaurant fitted up like the Roman catacombs. All the waiters were Spanish and friendly, and wore short tunics. They were generally muscular, and the place was very agreeable, except for the food. After dinner we emerged into a warm dusk. As we crossed the street, an irate taxi driver grew tired of waiting for us to troop by, and edged forward, nudging Jordan with his fender.

“Hey,” Jordan said. “Watch it.”

The driver became agitated and leaned largely out of his cab window, saying terrible things in a very loud voice. “Calm down,” Jordan said to the cab driver.

“Look out,” I said. “He's getting out. He'll punch you.”

“Rude drivers,” Jordan said; we followed him rapidly to the other side of the street.

We always crossed streets rapidly in London. Encroaching traffic was frightening. Every time we started to walk somewhere, Bruce asked, “Do we have to cross the street?” “I don't know what's wrong with these people,” I said.”Why are they so homicidal? Every time I have to cross a street, I feel faint.”

“Cross at the zebra,” Jordan said. He was referring to pedestrian crossings marked on the pavement by diagonal white lines.

“But you don't know whether they'll stop.”

“They won't if you look hesitant.”

“But they're required to by law,” I said. “I thought they were so law-abiding. Why do they stay in queues until the bus comes and then shove and push and step all over each other?”

“Stop knocking everything,” Mark said.

“You know I'm an Anglophile,” I replied.

We were approaching the offices of the Playboy Club, which also doubled as living quarters for Victor Lownes, Playboy's London manager. Mark peered down into the area. “Gosh,” he said. “Look at that modern kitchen. Look at the stainless steel.”

“Stop looking in windows,” I said.

“But it's so cheerful,” Mark said. “Look, it's all new. It's clean.”

“Come on,” I said. Suddenly something hit me on the head.

“Something hit me on the head,” I said.

“What do you mean?'' Jordan said.

“Something soft,” I said. I looked up. A blonde woman stood on a low balcony over our heads. She grasped the rail with both hands and looked into my eyes; her expression was inscrutable.

“She dropped something on my head,” I said, pointing upward. We all looked up except Eric, who was dancing a jig at the end of the street. The woman stared back at us with gleaming eyes. We remained frozen for a moment, in a kind of tableau, and then we moved on, confused.

“Are you sure she dropped something?” Jordan asked.

When we entered the moldy entrance hall of 16 Baldridge Place, I found large bread crumbs and a piece of crust on my coat collar.

“She dropped bread on my head,” I said, awed.

“She must have thought you were a bird,” Jordan said.

Mark said, “I don't understand why these things keep happening to you.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
it suddenly began to rain much more heavily than usual. It was a storm: water gushed, huge hailstones fell rattling onto the little balcony outside our bedroom window. “Ah, God,” Mrs. Grail called up to me, “come down and look. Ah, God.”

In the basement, the hall between the kitchen and the laundry room was ankle deep in muddy water. “Look at that,” Mrs. Grail said with gloomy satisfaction. “The place is falling apart. Ah, they'll die here in the winter; they will, they'll die of cold. She hasn't spent a winter here yet, you know. Look at the walls.”

It was true: our charming little old town house appeared to be moldering and even crumbling in spots. It had certainly been tinkered with: wires and pipes swooped in and out of the walls. Through the bedroom window, I had noticed a pipe that poured water all over the terrace steps whenever anyone took a bath.

“And look here,” Mrs. Grail said, dashing into the laundry room. “Ah, God, it's awful.” A hideous sort of vine was waving its tendrils through the cupboard door and poking out through the hinges. “That wasn't there a few days ago,” I said.

“Ah, God, it's come through from the garden. The walls are full of holes.”

We mopped up the water, which was very muddy indeed, and went up to the top floor to inspect the damage in Miss Pip's apartment Jordan had left some of his things there before he went to fetch us from America. Water had leaked into the closet and wet his shoes.

“Ah, God,” cried Mrs. Grail, rubbing everything down with a cloth, “get your husband's things out of here; she'll come back and sell them. Look at this crazy place,” she added, gesturing with her chin. “Look at the window the decorator has to measure. Special curtains for this place indeed!” The window, smaller than the others in the house, was bisected by a plywood partition dividing the room into two parts, each with half a window. The smaller part might have been intended to be a bathroom, since there was a large bathtub in it. An entry was cut into the partition, but there was no door and no toilet or sink. Miss Pip and her friend had filled the place with shabby luggage, old lamps and sagging chairs. A couple of mattresses had been thrown over the pile.

“She'll die of the cold up here under the roof,” Mrs. Grail said, gesturing toward a tiny space heater in a corner. “And where's the sink? Where's the toilet? She'll have to go downstairs, and then there'll be hell to pay.” Across the tiny hallway was another smaller room with one dirty window and a little unused fireplace. Except for a hair carpet pad and a child's chair with a broken rung, it was empty. “Where's the stove?” Mrs. Grail asked. “She'll have to go down for her meals, and then you'll see fireworks.” She fumbled with a closet door. “It's locked,” she said.”Have you got a hairpin?”

“Oh, really, Mrs. Grail. I don't think we should even be here. Let's go down.”

“It might be soaking in there,” she responded righteously. “We need to air it. Why, the other cupboard was soaked, you know.” She jerked viciously at the door and it popped open. The closet was stuffed with Mrs. Stackpole's clothes, a good many bath towels, and several sheets.

“There's your linen,” Mrs. Grail said triumphantly. “Hidden up here all the time. Let's take it downstairs now.”

“I can't,” I said. I was dazed by the sight of the linen; I really couldn't believe it.

“You need the towels. And them twisty rags … and your bed …”

“Heaven knows we need more towels,” I said, while visions of impetigo danced in my head. “And you know we're desperate for sheets. But I just can't take them. She locked them away.”

Sighing and shaking her head, Mrs. Grail began to wipe off the top shelf of the closet, while I went down to answer the phone.

“Is Mrs. Stackpole there, please?”

“No, she isn't. She's in Scotland.”

“Well, is Mr. Stackpole there?”

“There isn't any Mr. Stackpole,” I said.”I think she ate him.”

There was a nervous titter. “Well, this is the electrician's wife. She called about a meter. Do you know anything about it?”

“What's a meter?”

“Well, you know, a shilling electric meter. She wanted it installed. She called several months ago, but my husband was on holiday and then he's been busy. You put a shilling in, you see, and the lights stay on for a certain time, until the shilling is used up.”

I could see us all in the dark, frantically turning our pockets out, and I was very glad skilled English workmen spent most of their time on holiday.

“She won't be back until September,” I said. “We've taken the house until then.''

“Oh good,” she said. “My husband has no time now anyway. That was what I wanted to tell her.'' I hung up, picturing Miss Pip hunting for shillings in the dark, and the phone rang again. This time it was Jordan. “I have to go to Birmingham next week,'' he said. “I just found out today. Basil Goldbrick knows about this company there that finances companies. Things are getting very bad, I don't know how long we can keep on. So Basil thinks we can do something with this company in Birmingham. He'll go up with me and introduce me to them. He knows the people or something. So Basil thinks we can do something with this company in Birmingham. He'll go up with me and introduce me to them. He knows the people or something.”