Love to Everyone Read online

  In chapel their friendship blossomed. They discovered the knack of fitting their own words to the rhythm and melody of the hymns. If anyone in the past had told Peter he would enjoy singing in chapel he would have dismissed them as insane, but Peter was changing.

  Oh, God, our help in ages past,

  I did not do that math

  He set us all for prep last night

  So could I copy yours?

  Yes, if you want I do not care,

  I’m sick of everything,

  The whole east wing is stinking of

  That fish we had last night.

  I know, it must have been weeks old,

  The breakfast eggs were green,

  I’ve got some biscuits if you like

  From our eternal home.

  They both could sing well, clear and in tune, but occasionally tears of silent laughter would roll down Simon’s nose and cause him to snort and gasp. This never happened to Peter. He took pride in maintaining an expression of perfect, blank-eyed calm. He enjoyed his friend’s snorts however, and wrote about them to Clarry, which made a change for her from his usual list of commands and grumbles. He mentioned other things too, that he had not thought worth recording before, such as the problem of the common-room fire, which blew smoke down the chimney until people’s eyes watered and they went early to bed.

  Clarry wrote back:

  You remember Mr. King, the rag-and-bone man who bought our old fish-smelling piano for one shilling and a pink geranium? Father is still complaining and Miss Vane says I should not talk to such people. But I do, because he is perfectly nice and so is his black and white horse, Jester. (Mr. King is very proud of Jester because he came all the way from Devon by train.) Well, I saw him yesterday and he stopped Jester to say, “All right, missy, I hope?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said. “What are you collecting today?”

  “Worthless brass and copper,” he said. “Terrible heavy old stuff that nobody wants but if you can’t do a kindness now and then, where would we be? I’m too softhearted, as my friends do like to say. I takes it off folks’ hands and leave them a flower to remember me by. Saucepans, stair rods, candlesticks, old brass coal scuttles, pile them on my cart, missy, and I’ll have them out of your way. But you’ll have to be quick because I’ve a terrible smoky chimney to sort.”

  “How do you sort a terrible smoky chimney?” I asked him, and he said, “Oh, that is a trick worth knowing but if you’ve nothing for the cart I must be moving on at once.”

  So I remembered that awful Indian table with the brass top that snags you every time you pass and it was so heavy he had to come and help me. But he told me about chimneys while we dragged it down the hall. Miss Vane came to the front door just as we reached it with the table and she was not happy. She made us put it down.

  “I am shocked,” she said. “First that valuable piano, spirited away without a by-your-leave, and now this beautiful table!”

  “But it has such sharp edges,” I said.

  “Sharp edges or not, I’m not taking no risks!” said Mr. King, walking very quickly backward down the steps toward his cart. “Not in this house twice! You must mind your poor old granny, miss, and I must be off!”

  Then he jumped into his cart and shouted “Lively, Jester!” to his horse, and Jester did go, very lively, clattering down the street, and Mr. King blew kisses as they left.

  “That man is an impertinent scoundrel!” exclaimed Miss Vane. “Really, Clarry, you should NOT let him into the house!”

  Then she looked anxiously in the hall mirror.

  “I suppose I am getting old,” she said very quietly, and she dabbed her eyes with one of her small hankies, the ones with heather in the corner that she bought from the church bazaar.

  “Angus would not know me now,” she said.

  “Of course he would,” I said. “You’re not old! Mr. King was just being awful because he wanted the table.”

  She shook her head and sniffed.

  “Who was Angus, anyway?” I asked.

  “When I was eighteen I danced with him at a party in London. A Christmas party. The last one I ever went to. I always remember how the snow drifted down in the lamplight outside the windows. Oh, well.”

  I told her it sounded like a party in a story.

  “It was like that, Clarry,” said Miss Vane.

  “Did you dance with him just once?” I asked her, because she seemed to want to go on talking.

  “Three times,” said Miss Vane proudly. “A country dance and two waltzes, and then we stood by the windows and watched the falling snow.”

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “He was Scottish. He went back to Scotland. I believe he married a very nice Edinburgh girl,” said Miss Vane, and then she started pushing the brass-topped table back down the hall.

  I have drawn a picture of the way the rag-and-bone man said to clear the chimney and I don’t see why a fireworks rocket wouldn’t work instead. They have them in the shops just now.

  Very much love from,

  Clarry

  P.S. It would be perfect if you were expelled.

  Peter was very scornful to Simon about Miss Vane and her lost Scottish Angus but the fireworks rocket idea appealed to them both. They followed Clarry’s instructions and became rather pleased with themselves. Rupert, to whom Clarry had given the almost impossible task of taking care of Peter without him noticing, saw that his cousin looked happier and was interested.

  “Introduce me to your friend!” he said, meeting them one evening as they hurried down a corridor.

  “Oh,” said Peter. “Well, he’s Bonnington. Bonners. Simon, or something. And this is my cousin. Rupert. Penrose. Rosy. Sixth form.”

  Simon’s ears went scarlet but he managed to say, “I know . . . I mean, I’ve seen . . . oh, God . . .”

  “So where are you both rushing off to?” inquired Rupert, more to put an end to the Bony One’s agony than because he was interested.

  “Double detention,” said Peter. “Because of mucking up the common room. If you must know.”

  “ ’Course I must! Aren’t I a prefect? Both of you? What’d you do?”

  “Cleared the chimney,” said Peter. “The smoke kept blowing back down.”

  “It always did,” agreed Rupert, grinning. “How’d you clear it, then? Send up the skinniest first year?”

  “Fireworks rockets. Three.”

  “Ah!” said Rupert. “I noticed you both had a grayish look, but I didn’t like to mention it. Double detention! How ungrateful of them! What’s a bit of soot?”

  “More than a bit,” said Peter.

  “Generations,” said Simon, and did one of his snorts, stumbled over nothing standing still, as he sometimes did in moments of crisis, and turned an even darker red.

  “Well, I think you showed great public spirit,” said Rupert, kindly ignoring these antics. “Congratulations to whichever of you thought of it first!”

  “It was his sister,” said Simon.

  “What, Clarry?” exclaimed Rupert. “Brilliant! I might have guessed! I’m going to write and congratulate her tonight!”

  Rupert drew a picture for Clarry of rooftops and chimneys, lit by an explosion of red and green stars.

  Clarry, you are a genius! he wrote underneath.

  Clarry was so pleased she stuck it up on the sitting-room mantelpiece, and it was still there when Peter came home at Christmas.

  “You should have seen the Bony One jump when the rocket went off,” he said. “He doesn’t like bangs.”

  “I wish I had seen,” said Clarry. “What’s his real name?”

  “I keep forgetting . . . Simon! Simon Bonnington. Bonners. He lives quite near here, in this town, anyway, not that far away. He said to bring you over. He’s got a sister.”

  “You told me. Vanessa.”

  “That’s right. A bit older than him.”

  “What is she like? What does she look like?”

  “I don’t
know! Tallish. Hair.”

  “Of course she has hair!”

  “Long, and very bright, like leaves.”

  “Not green?” said Clarry, laughing.

  “No, no! Fall leaves, and she’s got weird ideas. She wants to go and live in Paris.”

  “I think that’s a brilliant idea!”

  “I don’t know why,” said Peter, rather grumpily. “I can’t imagine you in Paris. Anyway, I said we’d go tomorrow.”

  “Good. I couldn’t go now. I’m busy!”

  “You! Busy! Doing what?”

  “Decorating for Christmas,” said Clarry. “I’ve made miles of paper chains. They’re up in my bedroom, waiting to be hung. And we’ve got a Christmas tree coming. A friend of mine is bringing it.”

  “That rag-and-bone man!” guessed Peter.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you give him?”

  “A Sunday school prize. One of those awful books they give you. About doing good and dying, that sort of book.”

  “I suppose it’s one way to get rid of them,” agreed Peter. “I don’t know why you want a Christmas tree, though.”

  “Because last year Christmas was so empty. Not one Christmassy thing except church in the morning, and you and Father wouldn’t come. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember that you tried to cook a chicken with the insides still in,” said Peter.

  “I’ve learned to do it properly this year,” said Clarry. “And there’ll be a real Christmas pudding and something else too.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Miss Vane gave me the idea. Come and help hang up my paper chains.”

  Peter was so glad to be away from school that he came and helped fairly willingly, and the next day set off across town with Clarry to visit the Bonningtons. There, Vanessa and Clarry made friends instantly, completely, and for life.

  “Come to our Christmas party,” begged Clarry, as they left.

  “What Christmas party?” demanded Peter. “Don’t be stupid, Clarry.”

  “We’re having a party on Christmas Eve. I’m arranging it all. Father said I could do as I liked so long as he wasn’t involved. There’ll be ten people, if Vanessa and Simon come. Ten is enough for a really good party!”

  “Ten?” asked Peter. “Father’ll never let ten people into the house at once!”

  “He will. You and me. Mrs. Morgan and Mr. Morgan with their little grandson Christopher, who they’re looking after that night. Him. Vanessa and Simon. Miss Vane. There’ll be music too, because Miss Vane is bringing her gramophone and Mr. Morgan his Spanish guitar. . . .”

  “That’s only nine,” said Peter, keeping count.

  “And Rupert!”

  “Rupert?”

  “Yes, and he’s staying all Christmas Day! The grandparents said he could. Vanessa, you will love him!”

  “Will I?” asked Vanessa. “Do you?”

  “Of course I do,” said Clarry.

  At Clarry’s party there was a Christmas tree with silver paper stars and red candles and paper cones filled with sugar mice and toffees. Presents hung amongst the branches, bought by Clarry with the long-hoarded remains of her sovereign. There were two gold paper roses for Miss Vane and Mrs. Morgan, a tin trumpet for Christopher, a guitar duster for Mr. Morgan, a red handkerchief with holly printed on it for her father, Bengal matches for the boys, and a pink bead necklace for Vanessa. When Vanessa saw these presents she took off her silver bangle, borrowed a pencil, found a scrap of paper, labeled it with Clarry’s name, and hung it with the stars.

  Miss Vane was sure the tree would catch fire, and said so several dozen times. Christopher choked on a sugar mouse and had to be turned upside down. Mr. Morgan made his duster into a hat and played his guitar much too willingly for most people. Peter, to the barely concealed wrath of his father, stoked the fire to a cherry red blaze. The children’s father gave sherry to the guests but drank whisky himself and constantly deserted them all to stalk into the street and check that the chimney had not caught fire.

  None of these things in any way spoiled Clarry’s party. They ate gingerbread hearts brought by Vanessa, mince pies from Miss Vane, miniature sandwiches made by Clarry and Mrs. Morgan, grapes and nuts and figs, and tangerines wrapped in silver paper. They played hide the thimble, oranges and lemons, forfeits, and blindman’s buff. Then the furniture was pushed back to the walls, the children’s father vanished in disgust, Peter operated the gramophone, and they danced colliding polkas in the living room and gallops up and down the icy hall.

  Miss Vane and Rupert: “Not so fast! Oh, my goodness! Oh, do take care of the Christmas tree!”

  Vanessa and Mr. Morgan: “What a brilliant party! I do like your hat!”

  Mrs. Morgan and Simon: “Come on, young man!” Mrs. Morgan ordered that petrified and bony one as she hauled him to his feet.

  Clarry and Christopher: “This is my best spinning round!” “Wonderful, Christopher, it’s my best too!”

  Afterward they sang “The Holly and the Ivy,” “I Saw Three Ships,” and “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” with a lot of guitar strumming between verses. To finish, Rupert called, “Come on, Clarry!”

  So Rupert was Good King Wenceslas and Clarry his loyal page, while Vanessa dreamed on the hearthrug, and Peter paused his fire stoking, and Christopher’s eyes were lollipop round, and the grown-ups were quiet, remembering other Christmases. And Simon the Bony One gazed in silence from the dusty folds and shadows of the faded scarlet curtains.

  Nine

  RUPERT STAYED FOR FIVE NIGHTS. six days, thought Clarry, not whole days of course, but nevertheless, six days with Rupert in them. It was as if summer had arrived midwinter. She had only really known him in Cornwall before. There, in the sunlight, with the sea glitter and the enormous light skies, he had blended into the brightness. Here, in winter, in the bare damp house, he shone like a warm lamp. He was always humming. He laughed out loud. On Boxing Day he swung Clarry into a few steps of dance, twirled her round, glanced into her face, and read her mind.

  “You’re worrying!”

  “I’m not.”

  “About me.”

  “Not really.”

  “Is Rupe bored? Is he cold? Does he mind the way Miss Vane appears so often? Is the food too awful? Does he understand about Father? Might he wish he hadn’t come? What will we do all day and will Peter sulk? Admit I’m right!”

  “A bit.”

  “I love Miss Vane. After a thousand years at boarding school I’m never cold and no food is awful. My father is worse than yours. I love being here, I hardly ever see you. I think we should always do Christmases like this. We’re going to the theater this afternoon! It’s going to be wonderful and silly.”

  “Are we? Are we?”

  “I went to the box office and got tickets this morning.”

  “But what about Father?”

  “Do you think he would like Columbine? Vanessa and Simon are meeting us there. It’s all arranged! Smile! Say, ‘Rupert, you’re my favorite cousin!’ ”

  “You’re my only cousin.”

  “But if you had a hundred?”

  “I’ve never been to the theater! Yes! Even if I had a hundred!”

  Peter said, not unadmiringly, “Rupert does as he likes here. Father can only just about bear it.”

  Rupert bought bacon and cooked it for breakfast. He fixed the terrible creak on the landing. When Clarry got drenched feeding carrots to Jester he hung her rain-soaked coat to dry before the living-room fire. He ran up the stairs two at a time and came down them in jumps. He sang. He vaulted over the banisters, hung by his hands, and dropped into the hall. He fed sugar lumps to horses he met in the street. He said “Whoops!” when he bowled Miss Vane into the coat stand, straightened her up, and apologized so seriously that she went straight home and baked him a treacle tart. Vanessa and Simon came over every single day, causing Clarry’s father to remark that the house was becoming worse than Piccadilly Circus.

 
“Do you like him?” Clarry asked Vanessa proudly.

  “Well,” said Vanessa. “I suppose.”

  On the last day that they were all together, the conversation turned to school. Vanessa described the girls’ high school, with its clubs and homework and lists of rules and hats like pale giant mushrooms. Simon made a few bleak remarks about mud, wind, football pitches, and frostbite. Peter said it wasn’t much better inside and even the classrooms were so cold you could see your breath like smoke. Rupert said that he’d once tried a cross-country shortcut and got so lost he’d been out till after dark. He told them he’d found his way back by the northern lights, so arctic cold was the night. Vanessa described how at the high school all the top windows were kept open, even when the inkwells froze. Then it was Clarry’s turn to tell an icy school story.

  “Where do you go to school, Clarry?” asked Vanessa.

  Clarry mumbled that it wasn’t very interesting.

  “Clarry goes to the Miss Pinkses’ Academy for Young Ladies,” said Peter.

  “The what?” demanded Simon.

  “It’s two old bats in an attic,” said Peter. “You ought to see it. You can, it’s just round the corner. Come on! I’ll show you!”

  With that, Peter, who usually never showed anyone anything, led the whole group out to see the front view of the Miss Pinkses’ Academy for Young Ladies, which looked like any other house on the street, bare walls, shabby paint, and dark windows.

  “It’s those three rooms at the top,” said Clarry’s suddenly ruthless brother, pointing (while Clarry lurked miserably behind). “She’s been going there for years, ever since she was six, and she has never learned a single useful thing. Sewing handkerchief cases, that’s all she did last term!”

  “We did other things too!” said Clarry, scarlet cheeked, but she had to admit, the handkerchief cases had been the main event of the term. They had been embroidered with pink and blue daisies at the two creaky tables where the Miss Pinkses’ young ladies also sat to copy faded maps, to add farthings and pennies and shillings into pounds, to draw shaky sketches of suitable subjects (A Winter Posy, A Quiet View), and to learn psalms from the Bible. The varnish of those tables was always slightly sticky and the air smelled of the paraffin stoves that heated the rooms from September to May.