O. Douglas - The House That is Our Own

“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:

Rainy rainy Rattle-sticks, dinna rain on me,

Rain on Johnny Groat’s house far across the sea;

and she laugh’d and clap’t her hands just like a bairn. Well, here we are, Mum.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Kitty, “thank you for everything, coming up with us and telling us nice things about the Countess. And you’ll introduce me to your wife, won’t you? Perhaps she might know of someone who could come and clean up after the painters. Oh, about painters. Do you know who generally does the painting work here?”

“Well,” said Gordon, “as a rule each tenant has his own man. But we had those staircases done in the autumn, and I can tell you the name of the firm who did them—Clark and Robinson, in Cleaver Street.”

Kitty asked if they had done it well, and was assured that it had been a satisfactory job.

“If ye like,” said Gordon, “I could call round and make an appointment for them to see you, mebbe the day. Ye’ll likely want it done as quick as possible, and this is the painters’ busy time ye must mind.”

“Of course it is,” said Kitty, “and I’d be very grateful if you’d let them know I’m here for a few hours. But are you sure you can spare the time?”

“Fine that. I’m gaun out, anyway.” He lowered his voice suddenly. “The folk above ye are called Boothby, a retired couple, and underneath there’s an old lady, Mistress Temple.”

He nodded his head several times in a mysterious manner, and withdrew.

“Ought I to have tipped him?” Kitty asked.

“I don’t think so. You can’t tip him every time he comes upstairs. Wait until you get settled, and if he’s been helpful, give him something substantial. After that, tip at set times, as we do in Queen’s Court. He seems an honest sort of man, don’t you think?”

But no answer made Kitty, for she was in her flat.

The hall was only a fairly wide passage, from which rooms opened on either side. The first on the left was the dining-room. “Here we must take measurements,” Kitty announced. “I want the sideboard to stand in the recess, if possible, a carving-table here and—there is more room than I remembered.”

Isobel followed her into the next room, a narrow slip of a room, but well lighted.

“This,” said Kitty, “is going to be my book-room. I think the long bookcase will get in along that wall. The writing-table in the window. A sofa in front of the fire—it’s so nice to lie with books piled all around you—and an arm-chair, if I can get it in. My ‘Peter Scott’ above the mantelpiece. This is the room I’ll sit in most, and I want my wild geese beside me. I’ll get the electric man to put a light over it. We had that at Hampstead, and we used to sit in the gloaming, and look up at the lighted picture, and think we heard the geese honk-honk——”

The drawing-room was at the end of the passage, a good-sized room with three windows.

Kitty gave a skip when she saw it. “It’s quite as nice as I thought it was. I was thinking I’d have the walls a sort of turquoise-blue paint, it makes such a good background for tulip-wood cabinets and tables. What luck that it has a decent hardwood floor, for I happen to have some quite good rugs, and it’ll save the camel-y carpet for my bedroom. It may not be healthy, but I do like a good thick carpet all over a bedroom floor. It’s so bleak sliding about on rugs—I wonder if my curtains are long enough? Luckily I’ve got three pairs the same, but I’ll need plain net for underneath ones.”

Isobel walked over to the window. “It’s a good thing to be at a corner,” she said, “you can see all round. This room’ll get sun all day—when there is any—so your turquoise walls won’t be too cold. Personally, I always like cream walls.”

“Everything’ll be cream except this room,” Kitty promised; “but blue is so pretty with golden wood. Now for the bedrooms—I’m afraid they’ve been sacrificed to the living-rooms. No—this isn’t bad. I’ll have this one for my own, seeing I’ll always be here. The bed’ll go between the two windows, and, oh! my dear, two cupboards! This is riches. They are more than cupboards, they’re closets. Hold that, will you, and I’ll measure the place for the bed. Have you got your finger on it? Then write it down—please. I wonder if the Countess slept here and found it triste ? What d’you suppose her drawing-room was like? Rather bare, I should think, with a gas-fire. The French have very little idea of comfort.”