would be thinking how lucky they were; would be handling the collection with reverence and love….
“I’d choose the Depressions rather than the Anxiety States if I were you, Step,” Robin was advising her. “From the point of view of a landlady, Depressions are a good bet because they lie in bed till midday and don’t eat breakfast. Whereas Anxiety States want grapefruit—All-bran—the lot. As well as picking at food all night and drinking coffee. And they have Troubles, too: girlfriends , and indigestion, and frantic phone-calls to places like Aberystwyth. It all costs money. And also, Step, as landlady it’ll all be your fault—you’ll be in loco parentis, which is the Latin for Heads-I-Win, Tails-you-lose. The Sociology Department at Leeds did a survey of landladies, and it proved conclusively that …”
“Shush, Robin, I’m trying to think. I must ring up Dot and insist that … I mean, I must get the rooms clear, mustn’t I? Once I’ve done that, then I’ll be able to decide exactly what I’m going to do.”
*
Any widow could have told her. Any property-owner, really. You don’t decide what happens to your vacant rooms these days, you just fight feebly against whatever does: and after a while, if you are sensible, you give in.
For they are stronger than you are. With their luggage, their determination, and the desperateness of their plight, you don’t stand a chance.
Thus it was for Imogen. Within a fortnight, Dot was back, in tears, and with yet more trunks, containing mountains of clothes and the boys’ electric train set. Herbert, apparently, was being impossible again, she just couldn’t face it, not over Christmas, and with the kids’ holidays starting. And besides—she hastened solicitously to add—she’d felt so guilty about going off and leaving Imogen alone in the empty house. She’d found (rather conveniently , in view of Herbert’s current impossibleness) that she couldn’t bear the idea of her stepmother being lonely over Christmas, and so—well—here she was. Vernon and Timmie too. They’d cheer Imogen up, wouldn’t they, bring a bit of life into the place … and Imogen, ticking off in her mind beds, rooms, blankets, food, had somewhat half-heartedly agreed.
Actually, Imogen’s loneliness seemed to be proving a godsend all round. Scarcely had Dot established herself in her own room—after a lot of fuss about the piles of papers and manuscripts that had been dumped there in her absence, and shrill insistence on them being moved forthwith to the attic lumber-room—than a telegram arrived from Bermuda announcing Cynthia’s arrival on Thursday. All love, and her plane would be arriving at Heathrow at a quarter to seven in the morning, please meet. She, too, had found that she couldn’t bear the idea of Imogen being alone over Christmas—evidently no one could who had any very compelling motive for escaping from his own festivities at home.
Even Herbert couldn’t, when it came to the point. Impossible he might be, and every bit as selfish as his wife claimed, but all the same the thought of Imogen’s loneliness seemed to work on him just as it had on the others, like a stick of gelignite. He arrived, small and shame-faced, and as if the Hounds of Hell were after him, on the day before Christmas Eve.
Imogen, of course, tried to be nice about it: he wasn’t her husband. She greeted him at least civilly, her brain a-whirl with calculations about where to put him if he and Dot were still supposed to be quarrelling; while Dot, a little in the background, looked him up and down with a knowing, I-told-you-so sort of look.
“There’s no room, Herbert, you can’t stay,” she began smugly. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you …!”—and when he didn’t say she hadn’t, her voice rose to a screech:
“I told you not to do this! I told you! Oh, you’re impossible …!”
Herbert didn’t deny it, though he seemed to have no particular plans for doing anything
“I’d choose the Depressions rather than the Anxiety States if I were you, Step,” Robin was advising her. “From the point of view of a landlady, Depressions are a good bet because they lie in bed till midday and don’t eat breakfast. Whereas Anxiety States want grapefruit—All-bran—the lot. As well as picking at food all night and drinking coffee. And they have Troubles, too: girlfriends , and indigestion, and frantic phone-calls to places like Aberystwyth. It all costs money. And also, Step, as landlady it’ll all be your fault—you’ll be in loco parentis, which is the Latin for Heads-I-Win, Tails-you-lose. The Sociology Department at Leeds did a survey of landladies, and it proved conclusively that …”
“Shush, Robin, I’m trying to think. I must ring up Dot and insist that … I mean, I must get the rooms clear, mustn’t I? Once I’ve done that, then I’ll be able to decide exactly what I’m going to do.”
*
Any widow could have told her. Any property-owner, really. You don’t decide what happens to your vacant rooms these days, you just fight feebly against whatever does: and after a while, if you are sensible, you give in.
For they are stronger than you are. With their luggage, their determination, and the desperateness of their plight, you don’t stand a chance.
Thus it was for Imogen. Within a fortnight, Dot was back, in tears, and with yet more trunks, containing mountains of clothes and the boys’ electric train set. Herbert, apparently, was being impossible again, she just couldn’t face it, not over Christmas, and with the kids’ holidays starting. And besides—she hastened solicitously to add—she’d felt so guilty about going off and leaving Imogen alone in the empty house. She’d found (rather conveniently , in view of Herbert’s current impossibleness) that she couldn’t bear the idea of her stepmother being lonely over Christmas, and so—well—here she was. Vernon and Timmie too. They’d cheer Imogen up, wouldn’t they, bring a bit of life into the place … and Imogen, ticking off in her mind beds, rooms, blankets, food, had somewhat half-heartedly agreed.
Actually, Imogen’s loneliness seemed to be proving a godsend all round. Scarcely had Dot established herself in her own room—after a lot of fuss about the piles of papers and manuscripts that had been dumped there in her absence, and shrill insistence on them being moved forthwith to the attic lumber-room—than a telegram arrived from Bermuda announcing Cynthia’s arrival on Thursday. All love, and her plane would be arriving at Heathrow at a quarter to seven in the morning, please meet. She, too, had found that she couldn’t bear the idea of Imogen being alone over Christmas—evidently no one could who had any very compelling motive for escaping from his own festivities at home.
Even Herbert couldn’t, when it came to the point. Impossible he might be, and every bit as selfish as his wife claimed, but all the same the thought of Imogen’s loneliness seemed to work on him just as it had on the others, like a stick of gelignite. He arrived, small and shame-faced, and as if the Hounds of Hell were after him, on the day before Christmas Eve.
Imogen, of course, tried to be nice about it: he wasn’t her husband. She greeted him at least civilly, her brain a-whirl with calculations about where to put him if he and Dot were still supposed to be quarrelling; while Dot, a little in the background, looked him up and down with a knowing, I-told-you-so sort of look.
“There’s no room, Herbert, you can’t stay,” she began smugly. “Don’t say I didn’t tell you …!”—and when he didn’t say she hadn’t, her voice rose to a screech:
“I told you not to do this! I told you! Oh, you’re impossible …!”
Herbert didn’t deny it, though he seemed to have no particular plans for doing anything
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