Christmas with the Savages Read online

  ‘Brown paper parcels,

  Only just a few,

  The perambulator and the bath

  And the dear old cockatoo.’

  ‘If only we had a man,’ said the nurse feebly, and as she spoke the stationmaster appeared and rallied the whole mob of us and marched us outside through a special gate. I was hustled with the nurse and baby and Betty into a brougham, which is a small cab lined with dark-blue cloth and having a peculiar fusty smell. The rest went in a larger carriage known as the station bus. Betty was insulted at being shoved in with the baby and made a great to-do, and indeed it was clear that the other children with the nursery maids were going to have much more fun than we were: but the stationmaster slammed the door and off we drove.

  Betty at once began to sing a chant which went:

  ‘He snapped a faggot-band,

  He plied his work and Lucy took

  The lantern in her hand.’

  After she had sung it six times over I asked her who ‘he’ was and what was a ‘faggot-band’. Betty replied at once that ‘he’ was a cat and so was Lucy, and ‘snapped a faggot-band’ was the sort of unexpected pounce that cats sometimes make. I said Lucy couldn’t be a cat as cats couldn’t carry lanterns, but she said that her cats always carried lanterns. I asked her to stop singing anyway as it was annoying.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me. I don’t even like it,’ replied Betty and went on singing. Presently she changed to a song of her own called ‘The Seam and the Sycamore’. The Seam, she explained, were millions of horrid little white caterpillars who live underground and go about with lanterns (like cats) while the Sycamore was a very nice cow. ‘They keep trying to catch him. Sometimes they do but he always escapes in the end.’

  And she started off:

  ‘So they went along along,

  So they went abing abong.’

  It was all like that. I raised my eyebrows and looked at the nurse, hoping that she would stop Betty, but she didn’t seem to notice anything.

  At last we got there.

  By this time it was very nearly dark, but peering out of the window I was able to make out cedar trees and a house that was very big and very plain, except for the front door which was guarded by great pillars.

  The brougham stopped, however, at a quite ordinary door at the side. My dignity was hurt and I was further annoyed to find that Lady Tamerlane was not there to say how-do-you-do. Instead we were welcomed by Mr O’Sullivan the butler, and Mrs Peabody the housekeeper, and when the other children had pushed past them and gone thundering off up the wooden stairs to the nursery, I thought I would say something grand to make them see that I was different from the ordinary child.

  Noticing a gas bracket which Mr O’Sullivan was lighting by banging with a pole, I said:

  ‘Don’t you have electric light here?’

  Instead of being impressed with my knowledge of the world Mrs Peabody merely thought that I was finding fault with her precious house.

  ‘Why, you are a little Londoner,’ she quickly replied. ‘You must remember that you are in the country now.’

  ‘Some houses in the country do have electric light,’ I said, thinking that Mrs Peabody did not know this interesting fact and would be grateful for the information. ‘I’ve stayed in one that has.’

  Mrs Peabody was not a bit grateful.

  ‘Candles is better for you,’ she said, as she started upstairs. She was one of those grown-ups who think that children hear nothing unless you are actually talking to them, so she added in her ordinary voice to the nurse, ‘What an interfering little madam she is.’

  We turned into the nursery passage where children were running in and out of rooms and shouting to each other. I put my hands to my ears.

  ‘What an abominable noise,’ I said, making one last effort to impress Mrs Peabody. ‘It gives me a headache.’

  ‘Little girls don’t have headaches,’ swiftly retorted Mrs Peabody, and I decided she was too stupid to bother with any longer.

  My room was interesting. It had a Kate Greenaway wallpaper, and great grey pictures of stags, and above the mantelpiece a picture of a lady in evening dress leading a little boy in yellow underclothes over some stepping stones. Crossing the Brook it was called. Mrs Peabody saw me looking at it and said:

  ‘Her Ladyship says that picture is very valuable and oughtn’t to be here.’

  It made me feel important but slightly worried to find myself the guardian of treasure. Suppose a burglar should come!

  ‘And are those valuable, too?’ I asked, pointing to the stags.

  Mrs Peabody didn’t really know. ‘They’re all of Scotland,’ she said brightly, ‘and exactly like it, too.’

  I thought it looked a horrible place, mist and mountains and wild animals, and I wondered why my parents should trouble to go there. It would not suit their usual habits. In my mind I could see my father trotting off to his club with his top hat and umbrella, and my mother going out calling with her veils and flounces and her silver card-case, and I could not imagine what either of them would do if left alone on a mountain with nothing but stags. It seemed so sad – almost as sad as me being left alone among the Savages. I felt very sorry for myself and homesick for that nice London drawing room, where everything I did and said was admired as a matter of course.

  3. The First Evening

  I had set out with the idea of getting to know all the Tamerlane Hall house party, but it was such a large one that I was a long time making out who belonged to whom; in fact I never did really discover how many grown-ups there were downstairs.

  To begin with, there were three sets of children, grandchildren of old Lady Tamerlane, and they all had nurses and nursery maids as well as mothers and fathers. The nurses were all called Mrs This and Mrs That although they weren’t married, but I will call them Nana Savage and so on, as it is easier to remember.

  The extraordinary Savages I had already sorted in my mind, and I was even able to tell which of the nursery maids was Minnie and which May. Then there were the Glens with a fierce little nurse who made sarcastic remarks, though the Glens themselves were gentle, attractive children. Peggy had long hair that she could sit on, and Peter looked simply sweet like the little boy in the picture called Bubbles. I had high hopes of making friends with them. There were also two older Glens called Malcolm and Alister, but they were big boys who lived downstairs with the grown-ups.

  The third set of children were unkindly nicknamed the Howliboos. They were quite small, pretty little things but nervous, specially Tommy, the eldest.

  Later I came to realize that Nana Howliboo thought she ought to be top Nana because Father Howliboo was the most important of the fathers; but Nana Glen and Nana Savage had been coming to Tamerlane much longer than she had, and they did not agree with her. I don’t think Nana Savage bothered much about it, but Nana Glen had been pouring out in that nursery ever since Malcolm was a baby and she did not mean to take a back seat.

  The nursery was not a particularly big room, and when I first sidled in, it seemed very full and very noisy. I stood unhappily by myself, watching tea being laid and wondering if I should ever get used to the hubbub. Before we had settled down to it we heard a brisk step in the passage and Lady Tamerlane was among us.

  There was at once a shout of ‘Grandmama!’ and Baby Savage hammered on the table with a spoon.

  Lady Tamerlane briskly kissed us all on both cheeks, one after the other. When it came to my turn I made a little speech.

  ‘It is very kind of you to ask me to your house party, Lady Tamerlane.’

  ‘Well, dear child, I hope you will enjoy it,’ replied she. ‘Your name is Everline, ain’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s Evelyn, after my Great-Aunt Evelyn,’ I was beginning to explain, but Lady Tamerlane was already kissing the next child.

  ‘Well, run along, Everline, and have a good tea. You’ll come down to the library afterwards.’ She did not listen to one, but her bright eyes were darting round the room and s
he spotted Marguerite. She asked her in French if she were comfortable. Marguerite was too overcome to answer, but she curtseyed low.

  Then in stumped Betty, saying:

  ‘What I’ve come for is tea and praise.’

  ‘Praise? Whatever for?’ said her grandmother, attempting to kiss her.

  ‘For everything I’ve done today,’ said Betty, dodging the kiss and going to the table to see what sort of cake there was.

  Lady Tamerlane whisked away as quickly as she had come, and I asked at once:

  ‘When can I go to the library? Now?’

  ‘Six o’clock, when they all go down,’ said Nana Glen snubbingly.

  I was disappointed as I had expected to have the grown-ups to myself, but I still hoped that with my pretty manners I should be able to outshine the other children.

  At tea, all the babies sat at a round table in the middle of the room, while Nana Glen poured out for us big ones at a long table at the side. She helped the Glen children first with the firmness with which she did everything, but after that she was fair enough.

  Finding myself next to Lionel I began a grown-up conversation.

  ‘I have a delightful bedroom,’ I said. ‘It has pictures of deer.’

  ‘Stags you mean,’ said Lionel. ‘That’s the stink room. She’s got the stink room, the stink room, the stink room.’

  Lionel seemed very difficult to talk to and not as grown-up as he looked, but I tried again.

  ‘Have all the rooms got names?’

  ‘Rather. There’s the Pigsty, the Dungeon, Blue Ruin, Hades and the Unbreathy-air Hole.’

  ‘They’re not very pretty names.’

  ‘Who wants pretty names? Heave over the jam.’

  I thought I might make myself useful passing things, so I asked Nana Glen if she would like some butter. She had the teapot in one hand and the hot-water jug in the other and said:

  ‘Save your breath to cool your porridge.’

  I had never heard this expression before, and every time one of the nursery maids was sent to fetch something (and they were springing up from their chairs the whole time) I expected to see them return with a bowl of porridge. However, everyone had finished and had rushed away from the table while I was still eating bread and butter.

  ‘Good gracious, what a slow eater the child is,’ said Nana Glen. ‘You’ll be still sitting there looking at your plate when the others have gone downstairs.’

  This was a dreadful idea, and I gulped down what was left and hurried off to get dressed.

  And what a performance that was! But as it happened every day we were all used to it. By the mysterious light of a couple of candles I put on clean frilly knickers, a clean frilly petticoat and clean socks. My shoes were of a purplish colour called bronze. My frock was very elaborate. It was trimmed with a coarse sort of lace called Irish crochet, and it had white ribbon threaded through it in several places. All the time that poor Marguerite was trying to dress me I kept darting away to look at things, and she had to follow me about making little bleating noises. I jumped on to the armchair and the bed, and was as tiresome as I could be, but in the end I stood still for her to brush my hair for, after all, I did want to look my best when I went downstairs.

  I could hear noises that suggested that in other rooms other children were being equally tiresome, but at six o’clock out we all came on to the landing, looking as good as angels. All the girls were in white. Their dresses were hideously over-decorated according to modern ideas, but Rosamund and Betty wore wide pink sashes which must really have been quite pretty. The beauty of the party, however, was undoubtedly Peter, who wore a black velvet suit with a lace collar and a crimson sash.

  The youngest Howliboo and the Savage baby were left behind, but the two eldest Howliboos were there, dragged along by their Nana.

  With a yell the six big children raced off down the passage and round the corner. I took Tommy Howliboo’s hand. He was a nice little boy and we were glad of each other’s company, though I couldn’t help wishing that he would come along a bit faster as I didn’t want to miss any fun that was going on in the library.

  We went down the front stairs, which were very grand. On the walls were Chinese hangings, red silk embroidered with dragons.

  ‘Dwagon ’tairs,’ said Tommy, pointing them out to me.

  ‘Oh, Tommy, it’s rude to point,’ said his Nana, who was very refined.

  ‘All dat wed is blood,’ went on Tommy, licking his lips. ‘At night, dwagons tum down and go pat, pat, pat wound de ’ouse. I wun too kick for ’em, but dey cot Betty an’ tore ’er fwock.’

  Having thoroughly frightened himself he then said he couldn’t possibly walk any farther, and his Nana had to carry him while I dragged down the little girl.

  Outside the library door we found the other children waiting for us. Lionel was passing the time by teasing Peter, calling him Pumpkin Eater – an insult which made Peter blind with fury. Lionel had taken up a strong position behind a china cabinet, but at one moment it seemed as if even that would not protect him against Peter’s charge. However, Peter had just enough self-control left to avoid the cabinet and merely crashed into the gong.

  The terrific boom made us all jump, and both the Howliboos began to howl.

  Peggy said ‘Really, Peter,’ and Rosamund said ‘Honestly, Lionel,’ in very superior voices. The library door was opened from the inside, and we all swarmed out of the gloom of the hall into the heavenly splendour of the library.

  It was a long room, so long, in fact, that one could hardly see the other end of it. About halfway down was a fireplace round which a lot of grown-ups were sitting. They were mostly women, as the men of the party made a point of avoiding the library between six and seven. I found out afterwards that they shut themselves up in a room into which women and children were never allowed to go, though I once peeped in through the hinge of the door. It smelt of cigars, and all round the walls were very unlifelike pictures of racehorses.

  As soon as they were inside the library, the Savages made a rush at the various tables of bagatelle and other games that were dotted about it. At once there was a noise of balls banging and shouts of ‘My turn,’ ‘Rotten shot,’ and so on. There was one very fascinating game which I have never seen anywhere else. Imagine a table with little pillars and arches and balustrades fitted on to it, and among them a lot of ninepins. You spun a powerful top among them, and it went through the arches and knocked down the ninepins. Somebody or other always seemed to be playing it, so whenever I think of that big grand room, I always hear the whizz of tops and the clatter-clatter of ninepins.

  I myself was not used to playing games of any sort. Besides, I had my own plans. Pretending to look at this and that, I worked my way quietly down the room till I had got to the grown-up district. There the first person to take any notice of me was a dim middle-aged lady who asked me to hold her wool, but as soon as she had tied me to herself I began to think that anyone else in the room would have been more amusing, and I kept letting the skein fall off my fingers. I entirely forgot the pretty manners of which I was so proud, and instead of answering her questions I tried to listen to everybody else’s conversation.

  I was particularly attracted by the two elder Glen boys who were playing chess close at hand, and I screwed round my head to watch them. I thought I understood how the game went, and when one of the boys hesitated for a very long time I could not resist butting in.

  ‘I should move that big one,’ I said.

  Both the boys looked up and stared at me as though I were some peculiar sort of animal. I smiled as nicely as I knew how and dropped the skein of wool for the tenth time.

  ‘Oh, you would, would you?’ said one of the boys in biting tones, and down went their heads again.

  I hoped that nobody had heard me getting this terrible snub, but fortunately Rosamund was going round the circle asking everybody if they were Cavalier or Roundhead, and writing the answer down in a notebook.

  ‘Which are you?�
�� someone asked her.

  ‘Cavalier, of course,’ said Rosamund. ‘I’m Rupert of the Rhine. Naturally.’

  ‘Are you all equally keen on history?’ somebody else asked.

  ‘Betty is,’ said Harry. He took a sort of fatherly pride in Betty and liked to make her show off her tricks. ‘Tell them about history, Betty.’

  Betty was apt to be either very bold or very shy. On this occasion she was very bold. She planted herself on the hearthrug with her legs apart.

  ‘My one is Leopold, Duke of Austria. I am going to marry him.’

  ‘But what about him shutting up poor Richard in a dungeon?’ said one of the aunts. Everyone at Tamerlane Hall knew a lot about history. ‘Stone cold and pitch dark, I expect.’

  ‘No, it weren’t,’ contradicted Betty. ‘It were stone hot and pitch light. And I shall also marry Lars Porsena. And Guy Fawkes, too. He used his fireworks to blow up the House of the Parlourmaid.’

  ‘Can you tell us about the Whigs and Tories?’ asked another Aunt.

  ‘Aunt Hester,’ answered Betty, ‘I know about only two sort of wigs. Hair wigs and earwigs.’

  I thought this was enough about history, so I dropped the wool altogether and joined Betty on the hearthrug and told them that I had started French. This had the effect I wanted, and everyone turned and looked at me.

  ‘Do you do “French without Tears”?’ said an aunt. ‘Let me see, how does it begin? About Robert and Charles, isn’t it? Robert est grand et Charles est petit. Who knows what that means?’

  Perhaps her accent was rather more Frenchified than the accents we were used to. At any rate no one seemed anxious to speak, and the aunt repeated it over again very slowly. ‘Robert est grand’ (here she put her hand high in the air) ‘et Charles est petit.’ Here she put it very low.

  ‘Oh, I see now,’ said Harry. ‘Robert is in an aeroplane.’

  ‘And Charles is a cat,’ chipped in Betty.