大象的证词7

Chapter 7

Back to the Nursery

Mrs Oliver looked rather doubtfully at the three steps and the front doorof a small, rather dilapidated-looking cottage in the side street. Below thewindows some bulbs were growing, mainly tulips.

Mrs Oliver paused, opened the little address book in her hand, verifiedthat she was in the place she thought she was, and rapped gently with theknocker after having tried to press a bell-push of possible electrical signi-ficance but which did not seem to yield any satisfactory bell ringing in-side, or anything of that kind. Presently, not getting any response, sheknocked again. This time there were sounds from inside. A shufflingsound of feet, some asthmatic breathing and hands apparently trying tomanage the opening of the door. With this noise there came a few vagueechoes in the letter-box.

‘Oh, drat it. Drat it. Stuck again, you brute, you.’

Finally, success met these inward industries, and the door, making acreaky and rather doubtful noise, was slowly pulled open. A very old wo-man with a wrinkled face, humped shoulders and a general arthritic ap-pearance, looked at her visitor. Her face was unwelcoming. It held no signof fear, merely of distaste for those who came and knocked at the home ofan Englishwoman’s castle. She might have been seventy or eighty, but shewas still a valiant defender of her home.

‘I dunno what you’ve come about and I –’ she stopped. ‘Why,’ she said,‘it’s Miss Ariadne. Well I never now! It’s Miss Ariadne.’

‘I think you’re wonderful to know me,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘How are you,Mrs Matcham?’

‘Miss Ariadne! Just think of that now.’

It was, Mrs Ariadne Oliver thought, a long time ago since she had beenaddressed as Miss Ariadne, but the intonation of the voice, cracked withage though it was, rang a familiar note.

‘Come in, m’dear,’ said the old dame, ‘come in now. You’re lookin’ well,you are. I dunno how many years it is since I’ve seen you. Fifteen at least.’

It was a good deal more than fifteen but Mrs Oliver made no correc-tions. She came in. Mrs Matcham was shaking hands, her hands wererather unwilling to obey their owner’s orders. She managed to shut thedoor and, shuffling her feet and limping, entered a small room which wasobviously one that was kept for the reception of any likely or unlikely vis-itors whom Mrs Matcham was prepared to admit to her home. There werelarge numbers of photographs, some of babies, some of adults. Some innice leather frames which were slowly drooping but had not quite fallento pieces yet. One in a silver frame by now rather tarnished, representinga young woman in presentation Court Dress with feathers rising up on herhead. Two naval officers, two military gentlemen, some photographs ofnaked babies sprawling on rugs. There was a sofa and two chairs. As bid-den, Mrs Oliver sat in a chair. Mrs Matcham pressed herself down on thesofa and pulled a cushion into the hollow of her back with some difficulty.

‘Well, my dear, fancy seeing you. And you’re still writing your prettystories, are you?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, assenting to this though with a slight doubt as tohow far detective stories and stories of crime and general criminal beha-viour could be called ‘pretty stories’. But that, she thought, was very mucha habit of Mrs Matcham’s.

‘I’m all alone now,’ said Mrs Matcham. ‘You remember Gracie, my sis-ter? She died last autumn, she did. Cancer it was. They operated but it wastoo late.’

‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry,’ said Mrs Oliver.

Conversation proceeded for the next ten minutes on the subject of thedemise, one by one, of Mrs Matcham’s last remaining relatives.

‘And you’re all right, are you? Doing all right? Got a husband now? Ohnow, I remember, he’s dead years ago, isn’t he? And what brings you here,to Little Saltern Minor?’

‘I just happened to be in the neighbourhood,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘and asI’ve got your address in my little address book with me, I thought I’d justdrop in and – well, see how you were and everything.’

‘Ah! And talk about old times, perhaps. Always nice when you can dothat, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Oliver, feeling some relief that this particular linehad been indicated to her since it was more or less what she had come for.

‘What a lot of photographs you’ve got,’ she said.

‘Ah, I have, an’ that. D’you know, when I was in that Home – silly nameit had. Sunset House of Happiness for the Aged, something like that it wascalled, a year and a quarter I lived there till I couldn’t stand it no more, anasty lot they were, saying you couldn’t have any of your own things withyou. You know, everything had to belong to the Home. I don’t say as itwasn’t comfortable, but you know, I like me own things around me. Myphotos and my furniture. And then there was ever so nice a lady, camefrom a Council she did, some society or other, and she told me there wasanother place where they had homes of their own or something and youcould take what you liked with you. And there’s ever such a nice helper ascomes in every day to see if you’re all right. Ah, very comfortable I amhere. Very comfortable indeed. I’ve got all my own things.’

‘Something from everywhere,’ said Mrs Oliver, looking round.

‘Yes, that table – the brass one – that’s Captain Wilson, he sent me thatfrom Singapore or something like that. And that Benares brass too. That’snice, isn’t it? That’s a funny thing on the ashtray. That’s Egyptian, that is.

It’s a scarabee, or some name like that. You know. Sounds like some kindof scratching disease but it isn’t. No, it’s a sort of beetle and it’s made outof some stone. They call it a precious stone. Bright blue. A lazy – a lavis – alazy lapin or something like that.’

‘Lapis lazuli,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘That’s right. That’s what it is. Very nice, that is. That was my archaeolo-gical boy what went digging. He sent me that.’

‘All your lovely past,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Yes, all my boys and girls. Someof them as babies, some of them I had from the month, and the older ones.

Some of them when I went to India and that other time when I was inSiam. Yes. That’s Miss Moya in her Court dress. Ah, she was a pretty thing.

Divorced two husbands, she has. Yes. Trouble with his lordship, the firstone, and then she married one of those pop singers and of course thatcouldn’t take very well. And then she married someone in California. Theyhad a yacht and went places, I think. Died two or three years ago and onlysixty-two. Pity dying so young, you know.’

‘You’ve been to a lot of different parts of the world yourself, haven’tyou?’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘India, Hong Kong, then Egypt, and South America,wasn’t it?’

‘Ah yes, I’ve been about a good deal.’

‘I remember,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘when I was in Malaya, you were with aservice family then, weren’t you? A General somebody. Was it – now waita minute, I can’t remember the name – it wasn’t General and LadyRavenscroft, was it?’

‘No, no, you’ve got the name wrong. You’re thinking of when I was withthe Barnabys. That’s right. You came to stay with them. Remember? Youwere doing a tour, you were, and you came and stayed with the Barnabys.

You were an old friend of hers. He was a Judge.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s difficult a bit. One gets names mixed up.’

‘Two nice children they had,’ said Mrs Matcham. ‘Of course they went toschool in England. The boy went to Harrow and the girl went to Roedean, Ithink it was, and so I moved on to another family after that. Ah, thingshave changed nowadays. Not so many amahs, even, as there used to be.

Mind you, the amahs used to be a bit of a trouble now and then. I got onwith our one very well when I was with the Barnabys, I mean. Who was ityou spoke of ? The Ravenscrofts? Well, I remember them. Yes – I forget thename of the place where they lived now. Not far from us. The familieswere acquainted, you know. Oh yes, it’s a long time ago, but I remember itall. I was still out there with the Barnabys, you know. I stayed on when thechildren went to school to look after Mrs Barnaby. Look after her things,you know, and mend them and all that. Oh yes, I was there when that aw-ful thing happened. I don’t mean the Barnabys, I mean to theRavenscrofts. Yes, I shall never forget that. Hearing about it, I mean. Nat-urally I wasn’t mixed up in it myself, but it was a terrible thing to happen,wasn’t it?’

‘I should think it must have been,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘It was after you’d gone back to England, a good long time after that, Ithink. A nice couple they were. Very nice couple and it was a shock tothem.’

‘I don’t really remember now,’ said Mrs Oliver.

‘I know. One forgets things. I don’t myself. But they said she’d alwaysbeen queer, you know. Ever since the time she was a child. Some earlystory there was. She took a baby out of the pram and threw it in the river.

Jealousy, they said. Other people said she wanted the baby to go to heavenand not wait.’

‘Is it – is it Lady Ravenscroft, you mean?’

‘No, of course I don’t. Ah, you don’t remember as well as I do. It was thesister.’

‘Her sister?’

‘I’m not sure now whether it was her sister or his sister. They said she’dbeen in a kind of mental place for a long time, you know. Ever since shewas about eleven or twelve years old. They kept her there and then theysaid she was all right again and she came out. And she married someonein the Army. And then there was trouble. And the next thing they heard, Ibelieve, was that she’d been put back again in one of them loony- binplaces. They treat you very well, you know. They have a suite, nice roomsand all that. And they used to go and see her, I believe. I mean the Generaldid or his wife. The children were brought up by someone else, I think, be-cause they were afraid-like. However, they said she was all right in theend. So she came back to live with her husband, and then he died or some-thing. Blood pressure I think it was, or heart. Anyway, she was very upsetand she came out to stay with her brother or her sister – whichever it was– she seemed quite happy there and everything, and ever so fond of chil-dren, she was. It wasn’t the little boy, I think, he was at school. It was thelittle girl, and another little girl who’d come to play with her that after-noon. Ah well, I can’t remember the details now. It’s so long ago. Therewas a lot of talk about it. There was some as said, you know, as it wasn’ther at all. They thought it was the amah that had done it, but the amahloved them and she was very, very upset. She wanted to take them awayfrom the house. She said they weren’t safe there, and all sorts of thingslike that. But of course the others didn’t believe in it and then this cameabout and I gather they think it must have been whatever her name was –I can’t remember it now. Anyway, there it was.’

‘And what happened to this sister, either of General or LadyRavenscroft?’

‘Well, I think, you know, as she was taken away by a doctor and put insome place and went back to England, I believe, in the end. I dunno if shewent to the same place as before, but she was well looked after some-where. There was plenty of money, I think, you know. Plenty of money inthe husband’s family. Maybe she got all right again. But well, I haven’tthought of it for years. Not till you came here asking me stories about Gen-eral and Lady Ravenscroft. I wonder where they are now. They must haveretired before now, long ago.’

‘Well, it was rather sad,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Perhaps you read about it inthe papers.’

‘Read what?’

‘Well, they bought a house in England and then –’

‘Ah now, it’s coming back to me. I remember reading something aboutthat in the paper. Yes, and thinking then that I knew the nameRavenscroft, but I couldn’t quite remember when and how. They fell overa cliff, didn’t they? Something of that kind.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘something of that kind.’

‘Now look here, dearie, it’s so nice to see you, it is. You must let me giveyou a cup of tea.’

‘Really,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I don’t need any tea. Really, I don’t want it.’

‘Of course you want some tea. If you don’t mind now, come into the kit-chen, will you? I mean, I spend most of my time there now. It’s easier toget about there. But I take visitors always into this room because I’mproud of my things , you know. Proud of my thingsand proud of all thechildren and the others.’

‘I think,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘that people like you must have had a wonder-ful life with all the children you’ve looked after.’

‘Yes. I remember when you were a little girl, you liked to listen to thestories I told you. There was one about a tiger, I remember, and one aboutmonkeys – 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 but-ton boots that were rather too tight on a road in England, and listening toa 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 herhostess out. At the pictures of girls, of schoolboys, of children and variousmiddle-aged people, all mainly photographed in their best clothes and sentin nice frames or other things because they hadn’t forgotten Nanny. Be-cause of them, probably, Nanny was having a reasonably comfortable oldage with money supplied. Mrs Oliver felt a sudden desire to burst out cry-ing. This was so unlike her that she was able to stop herself by an effort ofwill. She followed Mrs Matcham to the kitchen. There she produced the of-fering 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 myfavourite tea biscuits. Well, you are a one for never forgetting. What was itthey used to call you – those two little boys who came to play – one wouldcall you Lady Elephant and the other one called you Lady Swan. The onewho called you Lady Elephant used to sit on your back and you wentabout the floor on all fours and pretended to have a trunk you pickedthings 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.’

 

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