Читать книгу The House That Is Our Own - Anna Masterton Buchan - Страница 10

Table of Contents

Dr. Johnson

It was the middle of the next week before everything was settled and the flat Kitty’s. She had been getting anxious, fearing that her lawyer by over-caution was going to lose the chance, so it was with triumph that she ran into Isobel’s room one morning and announced that all was well.

Isobel looked as pleased as she was expected to.

“Now we can get on,” she said. “What a good thing it’s vacant and the painters can start at once.”

“Yes. Mr. Johnson says the lift-man or whatever he’s called, has the keys. Isobel, could you come with me now? There’s so much to see about.”

Isobel was writing letters, but she laid down her pen and said:

“Of course I’ll come. We’d better take a tape-measure and a pencil and note-book; you’ll want to measure and see how you can place your furniture. Isn’t this exciting?”

“Oh, isn’t it? Do you happen to know any good paper-hanger?”

“I don’t, never having required one, but the lift-man’ll be able to tell us who usually does up the flats. We’d better get ready.”

Isobel gathered her letters and put them tidily into a blotting book.

“I’m going to put a coat over an old frock that won’t mind grubbiness.”

“That’s wise. We’ll be messing about in cupboards and so forth. I’m all right, ‘dressed for drowning’ so to speak; this old rag won’t take any harm. Gracious! I feel like—I don’t know what I feel like!”

In a very short time they were ready; once outside, Isobel suggested that they should walk.

“It’s such a fine morning, and it isn’t very far and, as we approach it we can study the flat from all points, note the lie of the land, what shops are near, and so on.”

Everything and everybody that early April morning seemed to Kitty to be finding life amusing. The shop windows positively twinkled, the girls in the flower-shop at the corner were arranging spring flowers in a way to make the heart sing, the buses were swinging along as if they enjoyed doing it, even a blind man, standing with matches to sell, wore a smile.

“It’s a perfect day,” she told her companion.

Isobel agreed, and, in a minute, said, “You’ve only seen that flat once, haven’t you?”

“Yes, that time you went with me. We looked at it pretty searchingly, but then I was only a possible tenant; now I’ll look at it with entirely different eyes; it’s to be my home.”

As they approached Sloane Street, Isobel pointed out how convenient it would be to live so near shops, so much more amusing than living in a dreary square, or a long dull terrace; there was something, she said, so companionable about shops.

“Especially,” said Kitty, “when one is living alone. I’ll enjoy watching the traffic, and it’ll be company at night. I wonder where I could find a decent middle-aged woman who would do everything—cook, do the housework, and wait at table?”

“Ah, now you’re asking! People seek for such a thing as for hidden treasure. I’m told that if they’re at all capable they’ve generally fiendish tempers, and almost invariably drink.”

Kitty groaned. “And if I get a young one she’ll want to dance three nights a week, and probably bring home gangsters and have me murdered in my bed! How I wish I was one of those courageous women who don’t mind living alone. Life would be so simple then. All I’d need would be a day woman. I’d lock my door and go out, and come in without a qualm.”

“Oh, I know. Lots of people say they like having the house to themselves, but to me it sounds most uncomfortable. I don’t see how it could ever feel like a real home unless there was a settled person in the kitchen. There must be lots of decent women who would be glad of a quiet situation and a good home, and what we’ve got to do is to find one. Here we are! Kitty, it doesn’t look a bit like flats, does it? More like a very nice private house.”

A middle-aged man, with a limp and a row of medals, waited by the lift. His name, he told them, was Gordon, he came from Aberdeen, and had been in the flats since 1920.

“I was lucky to get the job,” he said, “and to keep it. We live on the premises, the wife and me, so whenever you want anything, Mum, you just let me know.”

Kitty thanked him, and asked, rather nervously, who had occupied the flat before her. It was what she much wanted to know, for, as she told Isobel, she liked to live in a house in which people had been happy. “It’s silly, I know, but I don’t believe I could live in a house where there had been a tragedy—it would haunt me.”

So now she waited, breathless, to know her fate.

Gordon put the key in the lock, and turned round to reply.

“To tell ye the truth, Mum, I could never tackle her name. I know what it looked like in writing, but ye dinna say it that way, so we just called her ‘the Countess.’ ”

Kitty’s mouth fell open. What shady foreigner had inhabited the flat that she had chosen for her own? What orgies had taken place within its door? What secret societies had hatched nefarious schemes?

“Was she Russian?” she faltered.

“No, no.” Gordon’s voice was reassuring. “She wasna Russian. There was nothing of the Bolshie about her. French she was, poor body, a perfectly decent lady, very quiet living. She had a maid who had lived with her all her life—a ‘bun’ she called her—and she told me that the Countess had been very wealthy at one time, but troubles had come to her. She had a son in London, something to do with the French Government, and she left because her son was sent to another country. They’re ay wandering, thae foreigners, but I must say she was a pleasant lady. It’s a gey job to be away from your native land. Me being in France I could talk to her about it. She didna like the fog (I dinna like it masel’), and she had a French word for the rain, treest she called it, and shook her head at it. I learned her a rhyme we used to say when we were bairns: