IV
Archie came home for his second leave. It must have been nearly two years, since I had seen him last. This time we had a happy leave together. We had a whole week, and we went to the New Forest. It was autumn, with lovely colourings in the leaves. Archie was less nervy this time, and we were both less fearful for the future. We walked together through the woods and had a kind of companionship that we had not known before. He confided to me that there was one place he had always wanted to goa€“to follow a signpost that said a€?To No Mana€?s Landa€?. So we took the path to No Mana€?s Land, and we walked along it, then came to an orchard, with lots of apples. There was a woman there and we asked her if we could buy some apples from her.
a€?You dona€?t need to buy from me, my dears,a€she said. a€?Youa€?re welcome to the apples. Your man is in the Air Force, I seea€“so was a son of mine who was killed. Yes, you go and help yourselves to all the apples you can eat and all you can take away with you.a€So we wandered happily through the orchard eating apples, and then went back through the Forest again and sat down on a fallen tree. It was raining gentlya€“but we were very happy. I didna€?t talk about the hospital or my work, and Archie didna€?t talk much about France, but he hinted that, perhaps, before long, we might be together again.
I told him about my book and he read it. He enjoyed it and said he thought it good. He had a friend in the Air Force, he said, who was a director of Methuena€?s, and he suggested that if the book came back again he should send me a letter from this friend which I could enclose with the MS and send to Methuena€?s.
So that was the next port of call for The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Methuena€?s, no doubt in deference to their director, wrote much more kindly. They kept it longera€“I should think about six monthsa€“but, though saying that it was very interesting and had several good points, concluded it was not quite suitable for their particular line of production. I expect really they thought it pretty awful.
I forget where I sent it next, but once again it came back. I had rather lost hope by now. The Bodley Head, John Lane, had published one or two detective stories recentlya€“rather a new departure for thema€“so I thought I might as well give them a try. I packed it off to them, and forgot all about it.
The next thing that happened was sudden and unexpected. Archie arrived home, posted to the Air Ministry in London. The war had gone on so longa€“nearly four yearsa€“and I had got so used to working in hospital and living at home that it was almost a shock to think I might have a different life to live.
I went up to London. We got a room at a hotel, and I started round, looking for some kind of a furnished flat to live in. In our ignorance we started with rather grand ideasa€“but were soon taken down a peg or two. This was wartime.
We found two possibles in the end. One was in West Hampsteada€“it belonged to a Miss Tunks: the name stuck in my mind. She was exceedingly doubtful of us, wondering whether we would be careful enougha€“young people were so carelessa€“she was very particular about her things. It was a nice little flata€“three and a half guineas a week. The other one that we looked at was in St. Johna€?s Wooda€“Northwick Terrace, just off Maida Vale (now pulled down). That was just two rooms, as against three, on the second floor, and rather shabbily furnished, though pleasant, with faded chintz and a garden outside. It was in one of those biggish old-fashioned houses, and the rooms were spacious. Moreover it was only two and a half guineas as against three and a half a week. We settled for that. I went home and packed up my things. Grannie wept, mother wanted to weep but controlled it. She said; a€?You are going to your husband now, dear, and beginning your married life. I hope everything will go well.a€?
a€?And if the beds are of wood, be sure there are no bed bugs,a€said Grannie.
So I went back to London and Archie, and we moved into 5 Northwick Terrace. It had a microscopic kitchenette and bathroom, and I planned to do a certain amount of cooking. To start with, however, we would have Archiea€?s soldier servant and batman, Bartlett, who was a kind of Jeevesa€“a perfection. He had been valet to dukes in his time. Only the war had brought him into Archiea€?s service, but he was devoted to a€?The Colonela€and told me long tales of his bravery, his importance, his brains, and the mark he had made. Bartletta€?s service was certainly perfect. The drawbacks of the flat were many, the worst of which was the beds, which were full of large, iron lumpsa€“I dona€?t know how any beds could have got into such a state. But we were happy there, and I planned to take a course of shorthand and book-keeping which would occupy my days. So it was goodbye to Ashfield and the start of my new life, my married life.
One of the great joys of 5 Northwick Terrace was Mrs Woods. In fact I think it was partly Mrs Woods which decided us in favour of Northwick Terrace rather than the West Hampstead flat. She reigned in the basementa€“a fat, jolly, cosy sort of woman. She had a smart daughter who worked in one of the smart shops, and an invisible husband. She was the general caretaker and, if she felt like it, would a€?do fora€the members of the flats. She agreed to a€?do fora€us, and she was a tower of strength. From Mrs Woods I learned details of shopping which had so far never crossed my horizon. a€?Fishmonger done you down again, Lovea€?, she would say to me. a€?That fish isna€?t fresh. You didna€?t poke it the way I told you to. Youa€?ve got to poke it and look at its eye, and poke its eyea€?. I looked at the fish doubtfully; I felt that to poke it in its eye was taking somewhat of a liberty.
a€?Stand it up on its end too, stand it up on its tail. See if it flops or if ita€?s stiff. And those oranges now. I know you fancy an orange sometimes as a bit of a treat, in spite of the expense, but that kind there has just been soaked in boiling water to make them look fresh. You wona€?t find any juice in that orange.a€I didna€?t.
The big excitement of my and Mrs Woodsa€life was when Archie drew his first rations. An enormous piece of beef appeared, the biggest piece I had seen since the beginning of the war. It was of no recognisable cut or shape, did not seem to be topside or ribs or sirloin; it was apparently chopped up according to weight by some Air Force butcher. Anyway, it was the handsomest thing wea€?d seen for ages. It reposed on the table and Mrs Woods and I walked round it admiringly. There was no question of if going in my tiny oven. Mrs Woods agreed kindly to cook it for me. a€?And therea€?s such a lot,a€I said, a€?you can have it as well as us.a€?
a€?Well, thata€?s very nice of you, Ia€?m surea€“wea€?ll enjoy a good go of beef. Groceries, mind you, thata€?s easy. Ia€?ve got a cousin, Bob, in the grocerya€“as much sugar and butter as we want we get, and marge. Things like that, family gets served first.a€It was one of my introductions to the time-honoured rule which holds good through the whole of life: what matters is who you know. From the open nepotism of the East to the slightly more concealed nepotism and a€?old boysa€cluba€of the Western democracies, everything in the end hinges on that. It is not, mind you, a recipe for complete success. Freddy So-and-So gets a well-paid job because his uncle knows one of the directors in the firm. So Freddy moves in. But if Freddy is no good, the claims of friendship or relationship having been satisfied, Freddy will be gently eased out, possibly passed on to some other cousin or friend, but in the end finding his own level.
In the case of meat, and the general luxuries of wartime, there were some advantages for the rich, but on the whole, I think, there were infinitely more advantages for the working class, because nearly everyone had a cousin or a friend, or a daughtera€?s husband, or someone useful who was either in a dairy, a grocery, or something of that kind. It didna€?t apply to butchers, as far as I could see, but grocers were certainly a great family asset. Nobody that I came across at that time ever seemed to keep to the rations. They drew their rations, but they then drew an extra pound of butter and an extra pot of jam, and so on, without any feeling of behaving dishonestly. It was a family perk. Naturally Bob would look after his family and his familya€?s family first. So Mrs Woods was always offering us extra titbits of this and that.
The serving of the first joint of meat was a great occasion. I cannot think it was particularly good meat or tender, but I was young, my teeth were strong, and it was the most delicious thing I had had for a long time. Archie, of course, was surprised at my greed. a€?Not a very interesting joint,a€he said.
a€?Interesting?a€I said. a€?Ita€?s the most interesting thing I have seen for three years.a€?
What I may call serious cooking was done for us by Mrs Woods. Lighter meals, supper dishes, were prepared by me. I had attended cookery classes, like most girls, but they are not particularly useful to you, when you come down to it. Everyday practice is what counts. I had made batches of jam pies, or toad-in-the-hole, or etceteras of various kinds, but these were not what were really needed now. There were National Kitchens in most quarters of London, and these were useful. You called there and got things ready cooked in a container. They were quite well cookeda€“not very interesting ingredients, but they filled up the gaps. There were also National Soup Squares with which we started our meals. These were described by Archie as a€?sand and gravel soupa€?, recalling the skit by Stephen Leacock on a Russian short storya€“a€?Yog took sand and stones and beat it to make a cake.a€Soup squares were rather like that. Occasionally I made one of my specialities, such as a very elaborate souffle. I didna€?t realise at first that Archie suffered badly with nervous dyspepsia. There were many evenings when he came home and was unable to eat anything at all, which rather discouraged me if I had prepared a cheese souffle, or something at which I fancied myself.
Everyone has their own ideas of what they like to eat when they feel ill, and Archiea€?s, to my mind, were extraordinary. After lying groaning on his bed for some time, he would suddenly say: a€?I think Ia€?d like some treacle or golden syrup. Could you make me something with that?a€I obliged as best I could.
I started a course of book-keeping and shorthand to occupy my days. As everyone knows by now, thanks to those interminable articles in Sunday papers, newly married wives are usually lonely. What surprises me is that newly married wives should ever expect not to be. Husbands work; they are out all day; and a woman, when she marries, usually transfers herself to an entirely different environment. She has to start life again, to make new contacts and new friends, find new occupations. I had had friends in London before the war, but by now all were scattered. Nan Watts (now Pollock) was living in London, but I felt rather diffident about approaching her. This sounds silly, and indeed it was silly, but one cannot pretend that differences in income do not separate people. It is not a question of snobbishness or social position, it is whether you can afford to follow the pursuits that your friends are following. If they have a large income and you have a small one, things become embarrassing.
I was slightly lonely. I missed the hospital and my friends there and the daily goings on, and I missed my home surroundings, but I realised that this was unavoidable. Companionship is not a thing that one needs every daya€“it is a thing that grows upon one, and sometimes becomes as destroying as ivy growing round you. I enjoyed learning shorthand and book-keeping. I was humiliated by the ease with which little girls of fourteen and fifteen progressed in shorthand; at book-keeping, however, I could hold my own, and it was fun.
One day at the business school where I took my courses the teacher stopped the lesson, went out of the room and returned, saying a€?Everything ended for today. The War is over!a€?
It seemed unbelievable. There had been no real sign of this being likely to happena€“nothing to lead you to believe that it would be over for another six months or a year. The position in France never seemed to change. One won a few yards of territory or lost it.
I went out in the streets quite dazed. There I came upon one of the most curious sights I had ever seena€“indeed I still remember it, almost, I think with a sense of fear. Everywhere there were women dancing in the street. English women are not given to dancing in public: it is a reaction more suitable to Paris and the French. But there they were, laughing, shouting, shuffling, leaping even, in a sort of wild orgy of pleasure: an almost brutal enjoyment. It was frightening. One felt that if there had been any Germans around the women would have advanced upon them and torn them to pieces. Some of them I suppose were drunk, but all of them looked it. They reeled, lurched and shouted. I got home to find Archie was already home from his Air Ministry.
a€?Well, thata€?s thata€?, he said, in his usual calm and unemotional fashion.
a€?Did you think it would happen so soon?a€I asked.
a€?Oh well, rumours have been going arounda€“we were told not to say anything. And now,a€he said, a€?wea€?ll have to decide what to do next.a€a€?What do you mean, do next?a€?
a€?I think the best thing to do will be to leave the Air Force.a€a€?You really mean to leave the Air Force?a€I was dumbfounded.
a€?No future in it. You must see that. There cana€?t be any future in it.
No promotion for years.a€?
a€?What will you do?a€?
a€?Ia€?d like to go into the City. Ia€?ve always wanted to go into the City. There are one or two opportunities going.a€?
I always had an enormous admiration for Archiea€?s practical outlook. He accepted everything without surprise, and calmly put his brain, which was a good one, to work on the next problem.
At the moment, Armistice or no Armistice, life went on as before. Archie went every day to the Air Ministry. The wonderful Bartlett, alas, got himself demobbed very quickly. I suppose the dukes and earls were pulling strings to regain his services. Instead, we had a rather terrible creature called Verrall. I think he did his best, but he was inefficient, quite untrained, and the amount of dirt, grease and smears on the silver, plates, knives and forks, was beyong anything I had seen before. I was really thankful when he, too, got his demobilisation papers.
Archie got some leave and we went to Torquay. It was while I was there that I went down with what I thought at first was a terrific attack of tummy sickness and general misery. However, it was something quite different. It was the first sign that I was going to have a baby.
I was thrilled. My ideas of having a baby had been that they were things that were practically automatic. After each of Archiea€?s leaves I had been deeply disappointed to find that no signs of a baby appeared. This time I had not even expected it. I went to consult a doctora€“our old Dr Powell had retired, so I had to choose a new one. I didna€?t think I would choose any of the doctors whom I had worked with in the hospitala€“I felt I knew rather too much about them and their methods. Instead I went to a cheery doctor who rejoiced in the somewhat sinister name of Stabb.
He had a very pretty wife, with whom my brother Monty had been deeply in love since the age of nine. a€?I have called my rabbit,a€he said then, a€?after Gertrude Huntly, because I think she is the most beautiful lady I have ever seena€?. Gertrude Huntly, afterwards Stabb, was nice enough to show herself deeply impressed, and to thank him for this honour accorded her.
Dr Stabb told me that I seemed a healthy girl, and nothing should go wrong, and that was that. No further fuss was made. I cannot help being rather pleased that in my day there were none of those ante-natal clinics in which you are pulled about every month or two. Personally, I think we were much better off without them. All Dr Stabb suggested was that I should go to him or to a doctor in London about a couple of months before the baby was due, just to see that everything was the right way up. He said I might go on being sick in the morning, but after three months that it would disappear. There, I regret to say, he was wrong. My morning sickness never disappeared. It was not only a morning ailment. I was sick four or five times every day, and it made life in London quite embarrassing. To have to skip off a bus when you had perhaps only just got on it, and be violently sick in the gutter, is humiliating for a young woman. Still, it had to be put up with. Fortunately nobody thought in those days of giving you things like Thalidomide. They just accepted the fact that some people were sicker than others having a baby. Mrs Woods, as usual omniscient on all subjects to do with birth and death, said, a€?Ah well, Dearie, Ia€?d say myself that you are going to have a girl. Sickness means girls. Boys you go dizzy and faint. Ita€?s better to be sick.a€?
Of course I did not think it was better to be sick. I thought to swoon away would be more interesting. Archie, who had never liked illnessa€“and was apt to sheer off if people were ill, saying: a€?I think youa€?ll do better without me bothering youa€?a€“was on this occasion most unexpectedly kind. He thought of all sorts of things to cheer me up. I remember he bought a lobster, at that time an excessively expensive luxury, and placed it in my bed to surprise me. I can still remember coming in and seeing the lobster with its head and whiskers lying on my pillow. I laughed like anything. We had a splendid meal with it. I lost it soon afterwards, but at any rate I had had the pleasure of eating it. He was also noble enough to make me Bengera€?s Food, which had been recommended by Mrs Woods as more likely to a€?keep downa€than other things. I remember Archiea€?s hurt face when he had made me some Bengera€?s, and allowed it to go cold because I could not drink it hot. I had had it, and had said it was very nicea€“a€?No lumps in it tonight, and youa€?ve made it beautifullya€?a€“then half an hour later there was the usual tragedy.
a€?Well, look here,a€said Archie, in an injured manner. a€?Whata€?s the good of my making you these thingsI mean, you might just as well not take them at all.a€?
It seemed to me, in my ignorance, that so much vomiting would have a bad effect on our coming childa€“that it would be starved. This, however, was far from the case. Although I continued to be sick up to the day of the birth, I had a strapping eight-and-a-half-pound daughter, and I myself, though never seeming to retain any nourishment at all, had put on rather than lost weight. The whole thing was like a nine-month ocean voyage to which you never got acclimatised. When Rosalind was born, and I found a doctor and a nurse leaning over me, the doctor saying, a€?Well, youa€?ve got a daughter all right,a€and the nurse, more gushing, a€?Oh, what a lovely little daughter!a€I responded with the important announcement: a€?I dona€?t feel sick any more. How wonderful!a€?
Archie and I had had great arguments the preceding month about names, and about which sex we wanted. Archie was very definite that he must have a daughter.
a€?Ia€?m not going to have a boy,a€he said, a€?because I can see I should be jealous of it. Ia€?d be jealous of your paying attention to it.a€?
a€?But I should pay just as much attention to a girl.a€?
a€?No, it wouldna€?t be the same thing.a€?
We argued about a name. Archie wanted Enid. I wanted Martha. He shifted to Elainea€“I tried Harriet. Not till after she was born did we compromise on Rosalind.
I know all mothers rave about their babies, but I must say that, though I personally consider new-born babies definitely hideous, Rosalind actually was a nice looking baby. She had a lot of dark hair, and she looked rather like a Red Indian; she had not that pink, bald look that is so depressing in babies, and she seemed, from an early age, both gay and determined.
I had an extremely nice nurse, who took grave exception to the ways of our household. Rosalind was born, of course, at Ashfield. Mothers did not go to nursing-homes in those days; the whole birth, with attendance, cost fifteen pounds, which seems to me, looking back, extremely reasonable. I kept the nurse, on my mothera€?s advice, for an extra two weeks, so that I could get full instructions in looking after Rosalind, and also go to London and find somewhere else to live.
The night when we knew Rosalind would be born we had a curious time. Mother and Nurse Pemberton were like two females caught up in the rites of Nativity: happy, busy, important, running about with sheets, setting things to order. Archie and I wandered about, a little timid, rather nervous, like two children who were not sure they were wanted. We were both frightened and upset. Archie, as he told me afterwards, was convinced that if I died it would be all his fault. I thought I possibly might die, and if so I would be extremely sorry because I was enjoying myself so much. But it was really just the unknown that was frightening. It was also exciting. The first time you do a thing is always exciting.
Now we had to make plans for the future. I left Rosalind at Ashfield with Nurse Pemberton still in charge, and went to London to find a) a place to live in; b) a nurse for Rosalind; and c) a maid to look after whatever house or flat we should find. The last was really no problem at all, for a month before Rosalinda€?s birth who should burst in but my dear Devonshire Lucy; just out of the WAAFs, breathless, warm-hearted, full of exuberance: the same as ever, and a tower of strength. a€?Ia€?ve heard the news,a€she said. a€?Ia€?ve heard you are going to have a babya€“and Ia€?m ready. The moment you want me, Ia€?ll move in.a€?
After consultation with my mother, I decided that Lucy must be offered a wage such as never before, in my mothera€?s or my experience, had been paid to a cook or a general maid. It was thirty-six pounds a yeara€“an enormous sum in those daysa€“but Lucy was well worth it and I was delighted to have her.
By this time, nearly a year after the armistice, finding anywhere to live was about the most difficult thing in the world. Hundreds of young couples were scouring London to find anything that would suit them at a reasonable price. Premiums, too, were being asked. The whole thing was very difficult. We decided to take a furnished flat first while we looked around for something that would really suit us. Archiea€?s plans were working out. As soon as he got his demobilisation he was going in with a City firm. I have forgotten the name of his boss by this time; I will call him for convenience Mr Goldstein. He was a large, yellow man. When I had asked Archie about him that was the first thing he had said: a€?Well, hea€?s very yellow. Fat too, but very yellow.a€?
At that time the City firms were being forward in offering postings to young demobilised officers. Archiea€?s salary was to be ?￡500 a year. I had ?￡100 a year which I still received under my grandfathera€?s will, and Archie had his gratuity and sufficient savings to bring him in a further ?￡100 a year. It was not riches, even in those days; in fact it was far from riches, because rents had risen so enormously, and also the price of food. Eggs were eightpence each, which was no joke for a young couple. However, we had never expected to be rich, and had no qualms.
Looking back, it seems to me extraordinary that we should have contemplated having both a nurse and a servant, but they were considered essentials of life in those days, and were the last things we would have thought of dispensing with. To have committed the extravagance of a car, for instance, would never have entered our minds. Only the rich had cars. Sometimes, in the last days of my pregnancy, when I was waiting in queues for buses, elbowed aside because of my cumbrous movementsa€“men were not particularly gallant at that perioda€“I used to think as cars swept past me; a€?How wonderful it would be if I could have one one day.a€?
I remember a friend of Archiea€?s saying bitterly: a€?Nobody ought to be allowed to have a car unless they are on very essential business.a€I never felt like that. It is always exciting, I think, to see someone having luck, someone who is rich, someone who has jewels. Dona€?t the children in the street all press their faces against the windows to spy on parties, to see people with diamond tiarasSomebody has got to win the Irish Sweep-stake. If the prizes for it were only ?￡30 there would be no excitement.
The Calcutta Sweep, the Irish Sweep, nowadays the football pools; all those things are romance. That, too, is why there are large crowds on the pavements watching film stars as they arrive at the premi?¨res of film shows. To the watchers they are heroines in wonderful evening dresses, made up to the back teeth: figures of glamour. Who wants a drab world where nobody is rich, or important, or beautiful, or talentedOnce one stood for hours to look at kings and queens; nowadays one is more inclined to gasp at pop stars, but the principle is the same.
As I said, we were prepared to have a nurse and a servant as a necessary extravagance, but would never have dreamed of having a car. If we went to theatres it would be to the pit. I would have perhaps one evening dress, and that would be a black one so as not to show the dirt, and when we went out on muddy evenings, I would always of course, have, black shoes for the same reason. We would never take a taxi anywhere. There is a fashion in the way you spend your money, just as there is a fashion in everything. Ia€?m not prepared to say now whether ours was a worse or a better way. It made for less luxury, plainer food, clothes and all those things. On the other hand, in those days you had more leisurea€“there was leisure to think, to read, and to indulge in hobbies and pursuits. I think I am glad that I was young in those times. There was a great deal of freedom in life, and much less hurry and worry.
We found a flat, rather luckily, quite soon. It was on the ground floor of Addison Mansions, which were two big blocks of buildings situated behind Olympia. It was a big flat, four bedrooms and two sitting-rooms. We took it furnished for five guineas a week. The woman who let it to us was a terrifically peroxided blonde of forty-five, with an immense swelling bust. She was very friendly and insisted on telling me a lot about her daughtera€?s internal ailments. The flat was filled with particularly hideous furniture, and had some of the most sentimental pictures I have ever seen. I made a mental note that the first thing Archie and I would do would be to take them down and stack them tidily to await the ownera€?s return. There was plenty of china and glass and all that kind of thing, including one egg-shell tea-set which frightened me because I thought it so fragile that it was sure to get broken. With Lucya€?s aid, we stored it away in one of the cupboards as soon as we arrived.
I then visited Mrs Bouchera€?s Bureau, which was the recognised rendezvousa€“indeed I believe it still isa€“for those who want nannies. Mrs Boucher managed to bring me down to earth rather quickly. She sniffed at the wages I was willing to pay, inquired about conditions and what staff I kept, and then sent me to a small room where prospective employees were interviewed. A large, competent woman was the first to come in. The mere sight of her filled me with alarm. The sight of me, however, did not fill her with any alarm whatever. a€?Yes, MadamHow many children would it be?a€I explained that it would be one baby.
a€?And from the month, I hopeI never consent to taking any baby unless it is from the month. I get my babies into good ways as soon as possible.a€?
I said it would be from the month.
a€?And what staff do you keep, Madam?a€?
I said apologetically that as staff I kept one maid. She sniffed again. a€?Ia€?m afraid, Madam, that would hardly suit me. You see, I have been accustomed to having my nurseries waited on and looked after, and a fully equipped and pleasant establishment.a€I agreed that my post was not what she was looking for, and got rid of her with some relief. I saw three more, but they all despised me.
However, I returned for further interviews the next day. This time I was lucky. I came across Jessie Swannell, thirty-five, sharp of tongue, kind of heart, who had lived most of her time as nurse with a family in Nigeria. I broke to her, one by one, the shameful conditions of my employment. Only one maid, one nursery, not a day and night nursery, the grate attended to, but otherwise she would have to do her own nursery anda€“final and last strawa€“the wages.
a€?Ah well,a€she said, a€?it doesna€?t sound too bad. Ia€?m used to hard work, and that doesna€?t bother me. A little girl, is itI like girls.a€?
So Jessie Swannell and I fixed it up. She was with me two years, and I liked her very much, though she had her disadvantages. She was one of those who by nature dislike the parents of the child they are looking after. To Rosalind she was goodness itself, and would have died for her, I think. Me she regarded as an interloper, though she grudgingly did as I wanted her to do, even if she did not always agree with me. On the other hand, if any disaster occurred, she was splendid; kind, ready to help, and cheerful. Yes, I respect Jessie Swannell, and I hope she has had a good life and done the kind of thing she wanted to do.
So all was settled, and Rosalind, myself, Jessie Swannell, and Lucy all arrived at Addison Mansions and started family life. Not that my search was ended. I had now to look for an unfurnished flat to be our permanent home. That of course was not so easy: in fact it was hellishly difficult. As soon as one heard of anything one rushed off, rang up, wrote letters, yet there really seemed to be nothing possible. Sometimes they were dirty, shabby, so broken down that you could hardly imagine living in them. Time after time someone got in just ahead of you. We circled London: Hampstead, Chiswick, Pimlico, Kensington, St. Johna€?s Wooda€“my day seemed one long bus tour. We visited all the estate agents; and before long we began to get anxious. Our furnished let was only two months. When the peroxided Mrs N. and her married daughter and children returned they would not be likely to let it to us for any longer. We must find something.
At last it seemed we were lucky. We secured, or more or less secured, a flat near Battersea Park. Its rent was reasonable, the owner, Miss Llewellyn, was moving out in about a montha€?s time, but would actually be content to go a little sooner. She was moving to a flat in a different part of London. All seemed settled, but we had counted our chickens too soon. A terrible blow befell us. Only about a fortnight before the date of moving we heard from Miss Llewellyn that she was unable to get into her new flat, because the people in it were in their turn unable to get into theirs! It was a chain reaction.
It was a severe blow. Every two or three days we telephoned to Miss Llewellyn for news. The news was worse each time. Always, it seemed, the other people were having more difficulty getting into their flat, so she was equally full of doubt about leaving her own. It finally seemed as though it might be three or four months before we would be able to get possession, and even that date was uncertain. Feverishly, we began once again studying the advertisements, ringing up house agents, and all the rest of it. Time went on, and by now we were desperate. Then a house agent rang up and offered us not a flat but a house. A small house in Scarsdale Villas. It was for sale though, not to let. Archie and I went and saw it. It was a charming little house. It would mean selling out practically all the small capital we hada€“a terrible risk. However, we felt we had to risk something, so we duly agreed to buy it, signed on a dotted line and went home to decide what securities we should sell.
It was two mornings later when, at breakfast, I was glancing through the paper, turning first to the flat column, which by now was such a habit with me that I was unable to stop it, and saw an advertisement: a€?Flat to let unfurnished, 96 Addison Mansions, ?￡90 per annum.a€I uttered a hoarse cry, dashed down my coffee cup, read the advertisement to Archie, and said, a€?Therea€?s no time to lose!a€?
I rushed from the breakfast table, crossed the grass courtyard between the two blocks at a run, and went up the stairs of the opposite block, four flights of them, like a maniac. The time was a quarter past eight in the morning. I rang the bell of No. 96. It was opened by a startled-looking young woman in a dressing-gown.
a€?Ia€?ve come about the flat,a€I said, with as much coherence as I could manage in my breathlessness.
a€?About this flatAlreadyI only put the advertisement in yesterday. I didna€?t expect anyone so soon.a€?
a€?Can I see it?a€?
a€?Wella€|Well, ita€?s a little early.a€?
a€?I think it will do for us,a€I said. a€?I think Ia€?ll take it.a€?
a€?Oh, well, I suppose you can look round. Ita€?s not very tidy.a€She drew back.
I charged in regardless of her hesitations, took one rapid look round the flat; I was not going to run any risk of losing it.
a€??￡90 per annum?a€I asked.
a€?Yes, thata€?s the rent. But I must warn you ita€?s only a quarterly lease.a€I considered that for a moment, but it did not deter me. I wanted somewhere to live, and soon.
a€?And when is possession?a€?
a€?Oh well, any time reallya€“in a week or twoMy husbanda€?s got to go abroad suddenly. And we want a premium for the linoleum and fittings.a€?
I did not much take to the linoleum surrounds, but what did that matterFour bedrooms, two sitting-rooms, a nice outlook on greena€“four flights of stairs to come up and down, true, but plenty of light and air. It wanted doing up, but we could do that ourselves. Oh, it was wonderfula€“a godsend.
a€?Ia€?ll take it,a€I said. a€?Thata€?s definite.a€?
a€?Oh, youa€?re sureYou havena€?t told me your name.a€?
I told her, explained that I was living in a furnished flat opposite, and all was settled. I rang up the agents there and then from her flat. I had been beaten to the punch too often before. As I descended the stairs again I met three couples coming up; each of them, I could see at a glance, going to No. 96. This time we had won. I went back and told Archie in triumph.
a€?Splendid,a€he said. At that moment the telephone rang. It was Miss Llewellyn. a€?I think,a€she said, a€?that you will be able to have the flat quite certainly in a month now.a€?
a€?Oh,a€I said. a€?Oh yes, I see.a€I put back the receiver. a€?Good Lord,a€said Archie. a€?Do you know what wea€?ve gotWea€?ve now taken two flats and bought a house!a€?
It seemed something of a problem. I was about to ring up Miss Llewellyn and tell her we didna€?t want the flat, but then a better idea occurred to me. a€?Wea€?ll try to get out of the Scarsdale Villa house,a€I said, a€?but wea€?ll take the Battersea flat, and wea€?ll ask a premium for it from someone else. That will pay the premium on this one.a€?
Archie approved highly of this idea, and I think myself it was a moment of high financial genius on my part, because we could ill afford the ?￡100 premium. Then we went to see the agents about the house we had bought in Scarsdale Villas. They were really very amiable. They said it would be quite easy to sell it to someone elsea€“in fact there were several people who had been bitterly disappointed about it. So we got out of that with no more than a small fee to the agents.
We had a flat, and in two weeks time we moved into it. Jessie Swannell was a brick. She made no trouble at all about having to go up and down four flights of stairs, which was more than I would have believed possible of any other nurse from Mrs Bouchera€?s.
a€?Ah well,a€she said, a€?Ia€?m used to lugging things about. Mind you, I could do with a nigger or two. Thata€?s the best of Nigeriaa€“plenty of niggers.a€?
We loved our flat, and threw ourselves heartily into the business of decoration. We spent a good portion of Archiea€?s gratuity on furniture: good modern furniture for Rosalinda€?s nursery from Heala€?s, good beds from Heala€?s for usa€“and quite a lot of things came up from Ashfield, which was far too crowded with tables and chairs and cabinets, plate and linen. We also went to sales and bought odd chests of drawers and old-fashioned wardrobes for a song.
When we got into our new flat we chose papers and decided on painta€“some of the work we did ourselves, part we got in a small painter and decorator to help us with. The two sitting-roomsa€“a quite large drawing-room and a rather smaller dining-rooma€“faced over the court, but they faced north. I preferred the rooms at the end of a long passage at the back. They were not quite so big, but they were sunny and cheerful, so we decided to have our sitting-room and Rosalinda€?s nursery in the two back rooms. The bathroom was opposite them, and there was a small maida€?s room. Of the two large rooms we made the larger our bedroom and the smaller a dining-room and possible emergency spare-room. Archie chose the bathroom decoration: a brilliant scarlet and white tiled paper. Our decorator and paper-hanger was extremely kind to me. He showed me how to cut and fold wallpaper in the proper way ready for pasting, and, as he put it, a€?not to be afraid of ita€when we papered the walls. a€?Slap it on, seeYou cana€?t do any harm. If it tears, you paste it over. Cut it all out first, and have it all measured, and write the number on the back. Thata€?s right. Slap it on. A hairbrush is a very good thing to use to take the bubbles out.a€I became quite efficient in the end. The ceilings we left to him to deal witha€“I didna€?t feel ready to do a ceiling.
Rosalinda€?s room had pale yellow water paint on the walls, and there again I learnt a little about decoration. One thing our mentor did not warn me about was that if you did not get spots of water paint off the floor quickly it hardened up and you could only remove it with a chisel. However, one learns by experience. We did Rosalinda€?s nursery with an expensive frieze of paper from Heala€?s with animals round the top of the walls. In the sitting-room I decided to have very pale pink shiny walls and to paper the ceiling with a black glossy paper with hawthorn all over it. It would make me feel, I thought, that I was in the country. It would also make the room look lower, and I liked low rooms. In a small room they looked more cottagey. The ceiling paper was to be put on by the professional of course, but he proved unexpectedly averse to doing it.
a€?Now, look here, Missus, youa€?ve got it wrong, you know. What you want is the ceiling done pale pink and the black paper on the walls.a€?
a€?No, I dona€?t,a€I said, a€?I want the black paper on the ceiling and the pink distemper on the walls.a€?
a€?But thata€?s not the way you do rooms. SeeYoua€?re going light up to dark. Thata€?s the wrong way. You should do dark up to light.a€?
a€?You dona€?t have to dark up to light if you prefer light up to dark,a€I argued.
a€?Well, I can only tell you, Maa€?am, that ita€?s the wrong way and that nobody ever does it.a€?
I said that I was going to do it.
a€?It will bring the ceiling right down, you see if it doesna€?t. It will make the ceiling come down towards the floor. It will make the room look quite low.a€?
a€?I want it to look low.a€?
He gave me up then, and shrugged his shoulders. When it was finished I asked him if he didna€?t like it.
a€?Well,a€he said, a€?ita€?s odd. No, I cana€?t say I like it, buta€|well, ita€?s odd like, but it is quite pretty if you sit in a chair and look up.a€?
a€?Thata€?s the idea,a€I said.
a€?But if I was you, and you wanted to do that sort of thing, Ia€?d have had one of them bright blue papers with stars.a€?
a€?I dona€?t want to think Ia€?m out of doors at night,a€I said. a€?I like to think Ia€?m in a cherry blossom orchard or under a hawthorn tree.a€?
He shook his head sadly.
Most of the curtains we had made for us. The loose covers I had decided to make myself. My sister Madgea€“now renamed Punkie: her sona€?s name for hera€“assured me in her usual positive fashion that this was quite easy to do. a€?Just pin and cut them wrong side out,a€she said, a€?then stitch them, and turn them outside in. Ita€?s quite simple; anyone could do it.a€?
I had a try. They did not look very professional, and I did not dare to attempt any piping, but they looked bright and nice. All our friends admired our flat, and we never had such a happy time as when settling in there. Lucy thought it was marvellous, and enjoyed every minute of it. Jessie Swannell grumbled the whole time, but was surprisingly helpful. I was quite content for her to hate us, or rather mea€“I dona€?t think she disapproved of Archie quite so much. a€?After all,a€as I explained to her one day, a€?a baby has got to have parents or you wouldna€?t have one to look after.a€?
a€?Ah well, I suppose youa€?ve got something there,a€said Jessie, and she gave a grudging smile.
Archie had started his job in the City. He said he liked it and seemed quite excited about it. He was delighted to be out of the Air Force, which, he continued to repeat, was absolutely no good for the future. He was determined to make a lot of money. The fact that we were at the moment hard up did not worry us. Occasionally Archie and I went to the Palais de Danse at Hammersmith, but on the whole we did without amusements, since we really couldna€?t afford them. We were a very ordinary young couple, but we were happy. Life seemed well set ahead of us. We had no piano, which was a pitya€“but I made up for it by playing the piano madly whenever I was at Ashfield.
I had married the man I loved, we had a child, we had somewhere to live, and as far as I could see there was no reason why we shouldna€?t live happily ever after.
One day I got a letter. I opened it quite casually and read it without at first taking it in. It was from John Lane, The Bodley Head, and it asked if I would call at their office in connection with the manuscript I had submitted entitled The Mysterious Affair at Styles.
To tell the truth, I had forgotten all about The Mysterious Affair at Styles. By this time it must have been with The Bodley Head for nearly two years, but in the excitement of the wara€?s ending, Archiea€?s return and our life together such things as writing and manuscripts had gone far away from my thoughts.
I went off to keep the appointment, full of hope. After all they must like it a bit or they wouldna€?t have asked me to come. I was shown into John Lanea€?s office, and he rose to greet me; a small man with a white beard, looking somehow rather Elizabethan. All round him there appeared to be picturesa€“on chairs, leaning against tablesa€“all with the appearance of old masters, heavily varnished and yellow with age. I thought afterwards that he himself would look quite well in one of those frames with a ruff around his neck. He had a benign, kindly manner, but shrewd blue eyes, which ought to have warned me, perhaps, that he was the kind of man who would drive a hard bargain. He greeted me, told me gently to take a chair. I looked rounda€“it was quite impossible: every chair was covered with a picture. He suddenly saw this and laughed. a€?Dear me,a€he said, a€?there isna€?t much to sit on, is there?a€He removed a rather grimy portrait, and I sat down.
Then he began to talk to me about the MS. Some of his readers, he said, had thought it showed promise; something might be made of it. But there would have to be considerable changes. The last chapter, for instance; I had written it as a court scene, but it was quite impossible written like that. It was in no way like a court scenea€“it would be merely ridiculous. Did I think I could do something to bring about the denouement in another wayEither someone could help me with the law aspect, though that would be difficult, or I might be able to change it in some other way. I said immediately that I thought I could manage something. I would think about ita€“perhaps have a different setting. Anyway, I would try. He made various other points, none of them really serious apart from the final chapter.
Then he went on to the business aspect, pointing out what a risk a publisher took if he published a novel by a new and unknown writer, and how little money he was likely to make out of it. Finally he produced from his desk drawer an agreement which he suggested I should sign.
I was in no frame of mind to study agreements or even think about them. He would publish my book. Having given up hope for some years now of having anything published, except the occasional short story or poem, the idea of having a book come out in print went straight to my head. I would have signed anything. This particular contract entailed my not receiving any royalties until after the first 2000 copies had been solda€“after that a small royalty would be paid. Half any serial or dramatic rights would go to the publisher. None of it meant much to mea€“the whole point was, the book would be published.
I didna€?t even notice that there was a clause binding me to offer him my next five novels, at an only slightly increased rate of royalty. To me it was success, and all a wild surprise. I signed with enthusiasm. Then I took the MS away to deal with the anomalies of the last chapter. I managed that quite easily.
And so it was that I started on my long career; not that I suspected at the time that it was going to be a long career. In spite of the clause about the next five novels, this was to me a single and isolated experiment. I had been dared to write a detective story; I had written a detective story; it had been accepted, and was going to appear in print. There, as far as I was concerned, the matter ended. Certainly at that moment I did not envisage writing any more books, I think if I had been asked I would have said that I would probably write stories from time to time. I was the complete amateura€“nothing of the professional about me. For me, writing was fun.
I went home, jubilant, and told Archie, and we went to the Palais de Danse at Hammersmith that night to celebrate.
There was a third party with us, though I did not know it. Hercule Poirot, my Belgian invention, was hanging round my neck, firmly attached there like the old man of the sea.