had a wonderful life with all the children you’ve looked after.’
‘Yes. I remember when you were a little girl, you liked to listen to the stories I told you. There was one about a tiger, I remember, and one about monkeys – monkeys in a tree.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I remember those. It was a very long time ago.’
Her mind swept back to herself, a child of six or seven, walking in button boots that were rather too tight on a road in England, and listening to a story of India and Egypt from an attendant Nanny. And this was Nanny. Mrs Matcham was Nanny. She looked round the room as she followed her hostess out. At the pictures of girls, of schoolboys, of children and various middle-aged people, all mainly photographed in their best clothes and sent in nice frames or other things because they hadn’t forgotten Nanny. Because of them, probably, Nanny was having a reasonably comfortable old age with money supplied. Mrs Oliver felt a sudden desire to burst out crying. This was so unlike her that she was able to stop herself by an effort of will. She followed Mrs Matcham to the kitchen. There she produced the offering she had brought.
‘Well, I never! A tin of Tophole Thathams tea. Always my favourite. Fancy you remembering. I can hardly ever get it nowadays. And that’s my favourite tea biscuits. Well, you are a one for never forgetting. What was it they used to call you – those two little boys who came to play – one would call you Lady Elephant and the other one called you Lady Swan. The one who called you Lady Elephant used to sit on your back and you went about the floor on all fours and pretended to have a trunk you picked things up with.’
‘You don’t forget many things, do you, Nanny?’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Matcham. ‘Elephants don’t forget. That’s the old saying.’
Chapter 8
Mrs Oliver at Work
Mrs Oliver entered the premises of Williams & Barnet, a well-appointed chemist’s shop also dealing with various cosmetics. She paused by a kind of dumb waiter containing various types of corn remedies, hesitated by a mountain of rubber sponges, wandered vaguely towards the prescription desk and then came down past the well-displayed aids to beauty as imagined by Elizabeth Arden, Helena Rubinstein, Max Factor and other benefit providers for women’s lives.
She stopped finally near a rather plump girl and enquired for certain lipsticks, then uttered a short cry of surprise.
‘Why, Marlene – it is Marlene isn’t it?’
‘Well, I never. It’s Mrs Oliver. I am pleased to see you. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? All the girls will be very excited when I tell them that you’ve been in to buy things here.’
‘No need to tell them,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Oh, now I’m sure they’ll be bringing out their autograph books!’
‘I’d rather they didn’t,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘And how are you, Marlene?’
‘Oh, getting along, getting along,’ said Marlene.
‘I didn’t know whether you’d be working here still.’
‘Well, it’s as good as any other place, I think, and they treat you very well here, you know. I had a rise in salary last year and I’m more or less in charge of this cosmetic counter now.’
‘And your mother? Is she well?’
‘Oh yes. Mum will be pleased to hear I’ve met you.’
‘Is she still living in her same house down the – the road past the hospital?’
‘Oh yes, we’re still there. Dad’s not been so well. He’s been in hospital for a while, but Mum keeps along very well indeed. Oh, she will be pleased to hear I’ve seen you. Are you staying here by any chance?’
‘Not really,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I’m just passing through, as a matter of fact. I’ve been to see an old friend and I wonder now –’ she looked at her wrist-watch. ‘Would your mother be at home now, Marlene? I could just call in and see her. Have a few words before I have to get on.’
‘Oh, do do that,’ said Marlene. ‘She’d be ever so pleased.
‘Yes. I remember when you were a little girl, you liked to listen to the stories I told you. There was one about a tiger, I remember, and one about monkeys – monkeys in a tree.’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I remember those. It was a very long time ago.’
Her mind swept back to herself, a child of six or seven, walking in button boots that were rather too tight on a road in England, and listening to a story of India and Egypt from an attendant Nanny. And this was Nanny. Mrs Matcham was Nanny. She looked round the room as she followed her hostess out. At the pictures of girls, of schoolboys, of children and various middle-aged people, all mainly photographed in their best clothes and sent in nice frames or other things because they hadn’t forgotten Nanny. Because of them, probably, Nanny was having a reasonably comfortable old age with money supplied. Mrs Oliver felt a sudden desire to burst out crying. This was so unlike her that she was able to stop herself by an effort of will. She followed Mrs Matcham to the kitchen. There she produced the offering she had brought.
‘Well, I never! A tin of Tophole Thathams tea. Always my favourite. Fancy you remembering. I can hardly ever get it nowadays. And that’s my favourite tea biscuits. Well, you are a one for never forgetting. What was it they used to call you – those two little boys who came to play – one would call you Lady Elephant and the other one called you Lady Swan. The one who called you Lady Elephant used to sit on your back and you went about the floor on all fours and pretended to have a trunk you picked things up with.’
‘You don’t forget many things, do you, Nanny?’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Matcham. ‘Elephants don’t forget. That’s the old saying.’
Chapter 8
Mrs Oliver at Work
Mrs Oliver entered the premises of Williams & Barnet, a well-appointed chemist’s shop also dealing with various cosmetics. She paused by a kind of dumb waiter containing various types of corn remedies, hesitated by a mountain of rubber sponges, wandered vaguely towards the prescription desk and then came down past the well-displayed aids to beauty as imagined by Elizabeth Arden, Helena Rubinstein, Max Factor and other benefit providers for women’s lives.
She stopped finally near a rather plump girl and enquired for certain lipsticks, then uttered a short cry of surprise.
‘Why, Marlene – it is Marlene isn’t it?’
‘Well, I never. It’s Mrs Oliver. I am pleased to see you. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? All the girls will be very excited when I tell them that you’ve been in to buy things here.’
‘No need to tell them,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Oh, now I’m sure they’ll be bringing out their autograph books!’
‘I’d rather they didn’t,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘And how are you, Marlene?’
‘Oh, getting along, getting along,’ said Marlene.
‘I didn’t know whether you’d be working here still.’
‘Well, it’s as good as any other place, I think, and they treat you very well here, you know. I had a rise in salary last year and I’m more or less in charge of this cosmetic counter now.’
‘And your mother? Is she well?’
‘Oh yes. Mum will be pleased to hear I’ve met you.’
‘Is she still living in her same house down the – the road past the hospital?’
‘Oh yes, we’re still there. Dad’s not been so well. He’s been in hospital for a while, but Mum keeps along very well indeed. Oh, she will be pleased to hear I’ve seen you. Are you staying here by any chance?’
‘Not really,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I’m just passing through, as a matter of fact. I’ve been to see an old friend and I wonder now –’ she looked at her wrist-watch. ‘Would your mother be at home now, Marlene? I could just call in and see her. Have a few words before I have to get on.’
‘Oh, do do that,’ said Marlene. ‘She’d be ever so pleased.
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