Muriel Spark - The Complete Short Stories

The hauling and bumping up the stairs continued.

‘Ain’t no key. Bolt from the inside.’

Whenever they paused I could hear Miss Pettigrew’s tiny movements. She was continuing to do what she was doing.

They knocked at the door. I pulled like mad at the rosary which I was telling for Miss Pettigrew. A man’s voice said, kindly but terribly loud,

‘Open up the door, dear. Else we shall have to force it, dear.’

She opened the door.

‘That’s a good girl,’ said the man. ‘What was the name again?’

The other man replied, ‘Marjorie Pettigrew.’

‘Well, come on, Marjorie dear. You just follow me and you won’t go wrong. Come along, Marjorie.’

I knew she must have been following, though I could not hear her footsteps. I heard the heavy men’s boots descending the stairs, and their unnecessary equipment bumping behind them.

‘That’s right, Marjorie. That’s a good girl.’

Down below the nurse said something, and I heard no more till the ambulance drove off.

‘Oh, I saw her!’ This was the laundry-girl who had been fond of Miss Pettigrew. ‘She must have been combing her hair,’ she said, ‘when they came for her. It was all loose and long, not at all like Miss Pettigrew. She was always just so. And that going out in the rain, I hope she doesn’t catch cold. But they’ll be good to her.’

Everyone was saying, ‘They will be kind to her.’

‘They will look after her.’

‘They might cure her.’

I never saw them so friendly with each other.

After supper someone said, ‘I had a respect for Miss Pettigrew.’

‘So did I,’ said another.

‘Yes, so did I.’

‘They will be very kind. Those men — they sounded all right.’

‘They meant well enough.’

Suddenly the ginger man came out with that one thing which stood at the core of this circuitous talk.

‘Did you hear them,’ he said, ‘calling her Marjorie?’

‘My God, yes!’

‘Yes, it made me feel funny.’

‘Same here. Fancy calling her Marjorie.’

After that the incident was little discussed. But the community was sobered and united for a brief time, contemplating with fear and pity the calling of Miss Pettigrew Marjorie.

The Twins

When Jennie was at school with me, she was one of those well-behaved and intelligent girls who were, and maybe still are, popular with everyone in Scottish schools. The popularity of boys and girls in English schools, so far as I gather, goes by other, less easily definable qualities, and also by their prowess at games. However, it was not so with us, and although Jennie was not much use at hockey, she was good and quiet and clever, and we all liked her. She was rather nice-looking too, plump, dark-haired, clean, neat.

She married a Londoner, Simon Reeves. I heard from her occasionally. She was living in Essex, and once or twice, when she came to London, we met. But it was some years before I could pay my long-promised visit to them, and by the time I got round to it, her twins, Marjie and Jeff, were five years old.

They were noticeably beautiful children; dark, like Jennie, with a charming way of holding their heads. Jennie was, as she always had been, a sensible girl. She made nothing of their beauty, on which everyone felt compelled to remark. ‘As long as they behave themselves —’ said Jennie; and I thought what a pretty girl she was herself, and how little notice she took of her looks, and how much care she took with other people. I noticed that Jennie assumed that everyone else was inwardly as quiet, as peacefully inclined, as little prone to be perturbed, as herself. I found this very restful and was grateful to Jennie for it. Her husband resembled her in this; but otherwise, Simon was more positive. He was brisk, full of activity, as indeed was Jennie; the difference between them was that Jennie never appeared to be bustling, even at her busiest hours, while Simon always seemed to live in the act of doing something. They were a fine match. I supposed he had gained from Jennie, during their six years of marriage, a little of her sweet and self-denying nature for he was really considerate. Simon would stop mowing the lawn at once, if he caught sight of the old man next door asleep in a deck-chair, although his need to do something about the lawn was apparently intense. For Jennie’s part, she had learned from Simon how to speak to men without embarrassment. This was something she had been unable to do at the age of eighteen. Jennie got from Simon an insight into the mentalities of a fair variety of people, because his friends were curiously mixed, socially and intellectually. And in a way, Simon bore within himself an integrated combination of all those people he brought to the house; he represented them, almost, and kept his balance at the same time. So that Jennie derived from Simon a knowledge of the world, without actually weathering the world. A happy couple. And then, of course, there were the twins.

I arrived on a Saturday afternoon, to spend a week. The lovely twins were put to bed at six, and I did not see them much on the Sunday, as a neighbouring couple took them off for a day’s picnicking with their own children. I spent most of Monday chatting with Jennie about old times and new times, while little Marjie and Jeff played in the garden. They were lively, full of noise and everything that goes with healthy children. And they were advanced for their years; both could read and write, taught by Jennie. She was sending them to school in September. They pronounced their words very clearly, and I was amused to notice some of Jennie’s Scottish phraseology coming out in their English intonation.

Well, they went off to bed at six sharp that day: Simon came home shortly afterwards, and we dined in a pleasant humdrum peace.

It wasn’t until the Tuesday morning that I really got on close speaking terms with the twins. Jennie took the car to the village to fetch some groceries, and for an hour I played with them in the garden. Again, I was struck by their loveliness and intelligence, especially of the little girl. She was the sort of child who noticed everything. The boy was quicker with words, however; his vocabulary was exceptionally large.

Jennie returned, and after tea, I went indoors to write letters. I heard Jennie telling the children ‘Go and play yourselves down the other end of the garden and don’t make too much noise, mind.’ She went to do something in the kitchen. After a while, there was a ring at the back door. The children scampered in from the garden, while Jennie answered the ring.

‘Baker,’ said the man.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Jennie: ‘wait, I’ll get my purse.

I went on writing my letter, only half-hearing the sound of Jennie’s small change as she, presumably, paid the baker’s man.

In a moment, Marjie was by my side.

‘Hallo,’ I said.

Marjie did not answer.

‘Halo, Marjie,’ I said. ‘Have you come to keep me company?’

‘Listen,’ said little Marjie in a whisper, looking over her shoulder. ‘Listen.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

She looked over her shoulder again, as if afraid her mother might come in.

‘Will you give me half-a-crown?’ whispered Marjie, holding out her hand.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘what do you want it for?’

‘I want it,’ said Marjie, looking furtively behind her again.

‘Would your mummy want you to have it?’ I said.

‘Give me half-a-crown,’ said Marjie.

‘I’d rather not,’ I said. ‘But I’ll tell you what, I’ll buy you a —But Marjie had fled, out of the door, into the kitchen. ‘She’d rather not, I heard her say to someone.

Presently, Jennie came in, looking upset.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I hope you didn’t feel hurt. I only wanted to pay the baker, and I hadn’t enough change. He hadn’t any either; so just on the spur of the moment I sent Marjie for a loan of half-a-crown till tonight. But I shouldn’t have done it. I never borrow anything as a rule.’