No Laughing Matter Read online

  Margaret sat on a stool in the shade cast by a wheel of the now stationary wagon. She made an entry in her diary – ‘A wonderfull satisfactory day. We made almost a royal progress with little colonies of prairie marmots popping up like so many jack-in-the-boxes from the rocks around us. They would stand for seconds together on their hind legs, their front paws dangling before their white furred chests, for all the world like a group of village women in their aprons come out to cheer our passing coach. And if happiness is the mark of Kings, we are Kings and Queens now; Grandmother so stately with her piled up snow-white hair, Aunt Mouse the embodiment of courtly dignity, and, as for Mother and Father, they both look so beautiful and young and so dedicated as they are about to enter their new kingdom. There is no doubt at all that the hardships and high hopes of this journey to a new life have proved their own satisfaction. United in common dangers we have found the new life before we have even reached Eldorado.’ She read through the passage and her mouth seemed filled with sickening sugar and choking starch. Granny Matthews, of course, would pant and exclaim, ‘What long words for a little girl of twelve and a half! I really think, Will, she’s going to be another genius like her father!’ But Aunt Mouse, she dreaded to think how Aunt Mouse would look. ‘Maggie, my dear girl, Kings and Queens! Where is your sense of humour? Life isn’t all icing sugar, my dear.’ Deliberately she added to the diary’s entry, ‘At about five as the sun was setting, our two collies, who had been missing all day, returned to the wagon. Their jaws were dripping with blood and out of Trusty’s huge maw hung the mangled remains of a prairie marmot, village white apron and all. Life has so many different satisfactions.’ She looked up to her great aunt for a certain grim approval. But then again she had meant to convey the incredible, sudden family happiness of today and now it was spoiled. Deliberately risking a sarcastic gleam in her great aunt’s eye, she turned to the inside cover of her diary, A Pioneer in the Prairies, she wrote, Being the Journal of Lady Margaret Carmichael, A Lady of Quality. There, now it was someone else, and Aunt Mouse and all other mice could jeer as much as they wished, it would not touch her. Yet still she had not made these hours immortal.

  Sukey fed the few hens they had brought along in order to be sure of fresh eggs, and then sat blissfully for a moment in the prairie sun’s warm rays (she had forgotten her bonnet, but never to fuss) watching the fat little puppies (liver and white, tan and white, chocolate and white) grunting and tugging as they fed from old Trusty. That old Trusty should so suddenly and unexpectedly have given birth was the wonderful, supreme surprise of these wonderful supremely happy days of – at last – a real family life she had always read of in stories, heard of from other girls at school, dreamed of over the nursery fire. No scenes, no ‘words’, no clever laughing at good, ordinary things, no awful disregard of the neighbours here in the prairies. That, if anything, was the tiny, midget fly in the delicious ointment – just for some of their neighbours to know what a happy family they could be! But not the awful neighbours they had in horrid Victoria, in horrid London. She had known things would never be right until they got away from the fog and the smoke and the chimneys. She had thought, it is true, of an English farm like the one in the Quantocks where they had stayed last summer, or of the seaside, all dunes and seaweed beds, like the shore in front of Granny M.’s house at Cromer; but, of course, they were not like other families, the mad Matthews, a gipsy lot, she should have seen earlier that they would never be happy until they were on the move. All that fighting and bitterness and the dirty kitchen and unmade beds had been just because they had felt caged, their wild spirits bottled up, their wings clipped. Now that they were as free as air they were happy as any ordinary, nice family and yet, besides, quite extraordinary, clever, talented, unpredictable, lively and absurdly lovable–still, in short, the mad Matthews. Except, of course, herself – Sukey, our little changeling, the sensible chicken in the crazy clutch, Father called her. Even now when danger and hardship and sheer wanderlust had brought the best out of all of them, she had her little contribution to make–seeing that some sort of a timetable was kept, if not for their meals, then for the poor hens and the dogs and the horses, seeing that Marcus ‘bedtime was not entirely forgotten, that Granny M.’s afternoon nap was remembered, that Aunt Mouse took her linctus. And later when they got to Eldorado and there were neighbours again, it would be she surely who could bridge the return to civilization for this mad, difficult, lovable family of hers. She placed great importance on whether they found nice neighbours. What would Eldorado prove to be like? She could not help thinking it would be like the Quantocks, in which case there would be the rector and Doctor Seely; or perhaps they would reach the Pacific Ocean when no doubt as at Cromer there would be a lot of kind, quiet retired people with grandchildren. Whatever, her happiness was now complete as, moving back to join her family in the wagon, another little family began to follow her, each fat puppy wobbling and falling over the other in its eager love. In the country, at regular hours, surrounded by happy little creatures of all kinds.

  Marcus sat on top of the wagon, cross-legged. Mother called out, ‘Look! Our little black monkey!’, but her words miraculously were without a lash, and she smiled up at him lovingly. He gazed all around at the flat sandy desert, with here and there a palm tree, and he found it sadly lacking. He began rapidly to increase the oases of palm trees so that soon they grew jungle thick, and about them crept great vines with monstrous flowers, crimson, purple, scarlet, brightest yellow. In the trumpets flickered emerald, gold and ruby humming birds, and soon the flowering trees waving high above the gentle breeze sent down delicious scents of spices to the paddy fields below. Above too, could be heard the chatter of monkeys and the shriek of parrots; now a macaw’s tail flashed blue and saffron and now a toucan’s beak showed for a second its livid green. Beneath him the elephant padded on, all but hidden from him by the richly jewelled howdah in which he sat with its canopy of fretted ivory, yet ever and again he caught sight of the great beast’s trunk lashing through the air as it trumpeted. Around the great elephant his brothers and sisters led by his mother danced a triumphal dance, their rich jewelled veils and costly robes churning the incensed air. His father, grandmother and Aunt Mouse were borne aloft in litters. Eldorado came in sight; he could glimpse its minarets and towers, hear distantly its splashing fountains. Yet while the others heralded the arrival of this beautiful family by ever more delicious cries and movements, he, high above, crowned by a vast red turban twice his own height, sat, most beautiful of all, cross-legged, black and motionless, a lovely sacred boy.

  *

  At the moment that Marcus in his holy pomp arrived at Eldorado, the communion became complete. Old Mrs Matthews forgot her everyday goodness, Miss Rickards her wise dryness, Miss Stoker her avenging comicality, Mr Matthews his sly warmth, Mrs Matthews her passionate fevers. Quentin became one youth and no leader; Gladys fused desire and orderliness; Rupert was made a boy again; Margaret resolved her formal dilemmas; Sukie forgot the hierarchies of niceness; Marcus’ sensuous needs were quenched – all felt only pleasure, affection and physical ease. Perhaps it was this last that they communicated to the large crowd around them in the Coronation Walk of the Exhibition, certainly people fell away to make room for this family party – husband and wife side by side, flanked by two handsome boys, then two older ladies with parasols flanked by two elegant little girls, and last a most proper nurse flanked on one side by a solemn plaited schoolgirl and, on the other, by a black little imp of a boy. The family moved forward, apparently unaware of the crowd around them, triumphantly happy, and as they moved, recalling perhaps his wife’s earlier humming, Mr Matthews began to sing joyfully. And soon all the others joined in chorus. It was the ladies who first stopped singing. Men are the egoists of life, of course; women are the conformists. And again, men need to advertise comradeship and ease, women are content to feel it. There are so many ways of explaining the gradual breakdown of the singing, but almost none to explain how it began.<
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  Encouraged by their father’s lead, for once oblivious of the adult female example, all six of the Matthews children bawled aloud, even Quentin quite forgetful, despite his school top hat and tails, of Ladbroke Grove proprieties. ‘Oh! We’ll chase the buffalo, yes we’ll chase the buffalo, in the wilds of West Kensington, we’ll chase the buffalo.’ Many in the large crowd turned with amusement or surprise to see these posh youngsters singing so loudly in public. Mr Matthews, by now conscious of the public gaze, smiled and swung his walking stick a little at the attentions of the passers-by; his wife smiled, too, to see him smiling. ‘Billy loves public notice, don’t you, darling?’ She put her gloved hand on his white linen sleeve – in the intense heat of that summer day he had got out his tropical suit, relict of their Madeira honeymoon. Herself, she twirled her cream lace parasol a little. Old Mrs Matthews smiled, a trifle askance, and kept her eyes intent upon the asphalt; ‘The conventions weren’t made for Will. And never have been.’ Miss Rickards, as usual, seemed to see nothing. Turning her head, she made kissing noises with her lips at the knowing green parrot that perched on her shoulder. But young Mrs Matthews knew her aunt too well to be deceived. ‘Don’t hide your face in Mr Polly, Mouse. She doesn’t want to admit that you’ve made her smile, Billy. Eccentric Mouse is the really conventional one.’ She turned to look behind her for Stoker. ‘And Stoker’s singing too.’ And so the quaint cockney was, if you could call the tuneless drone singing.

  Marcus, the youngest, spoke. ‘But there weren’t any buffaloes, were there?’

  His father smiled, ‘Trust His Nibs to have noticed that deficiency.’ He bent down and putting his face close to his small son’s, ‘No, Markie, and a very good thing too. Performing animals can only be trained by cruelty. Jack London proved that. Not that I should wish to criticize circuses. A wonderful people, the circus folk. But wild animals should be of the wild. I’ve often thought of writing the story of the last great bull buffalo roaring out his defiance of the Paleface on the prairies.’

  ‘Oh, you should write it, Will,’ said his mother, ‘shouldn’t he, children?’

  ‘I hope,’ said Miss Rickard, ‘that if you do, you’ll remember that they’re bison, William. Buffalo’s an entirely Yankee word for bison. The true buffaloes are only to be found in Asia and Africa. You see them wherever rice grows. Great patient creatures with huge sad eyes. What the school text books of my day called “friends to man”.’

  Once again young Mrs Matthews put out her small gloved hand. This time she turned and placed it on Miss Rickard’s grey shantung arm. ‘Darling Mouse.’

  Old Mrs Matthews blew a little under her veil. ‘Will’s always had the power to bring places to life, no matter whether he’s seen them or not. Do you remember, dear boy, how you startled them all at Joppins with your tales of life in Peking! Peking! And he was only six and a half. You couldn’t have been more because Porter was still with us. Oh dear! Such happy days! Major Cayley said then you would be a writer. You must have travelled everywhere, Miss Rickards.’

  ‘Enough to have a number of the usual tedious travellers’ tales. Though they are true.’

  ‘The places you sent me postcards from, Mouse, when I was little! There was one of cowboys, children, I perfectly remember it. You must tell them all about that, Mouse. But not till we’ve found somewhere for tea. I’m dying for a cup of tea. The dust and the heat!’ Young Mrs Matthews let her whole hour-glass figure wilt and even the grey ostrich plumes in her hat seemed suddenly bedraggled. ‘Find us tea, Billy. You’d like a cup of tea, wouldn’t you, Stoker?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘And you enjoyed the cowboys?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Good. Take Master Marcus’ hand, will you?’

  The square, red-faced woman did as she was asked. Her blue skirt and coat were neat, but her greying carroty hair crept erratically around the brim of her cherry-decorated hat. ‘Will you make one of yer drawings of them orses, Master Marcus?’ she asked him with grave interest, and very gravely he answered, ‘Yes, I think I shall, Stoker.’

  ‘Our only Pole Star is the Big Wheel,’ Mr Matthews announced. ‘I don’t want a Pole Star, Billy darling. I want tea.’

  ‘It’s quite difficult to see ahead with this crowd,’ her mother-in-law observed. ‘The world and his wife are here.’

  ‘This way then,’ Mr Matthews pointed with his stick to where the Big Wheel sparkled and flashed high up against the sky’s clear blue. The twins and Rupert began to sing once more as the party moved on.

  ‘Oh! No! Not again, children,’ said their mother. ‘We may recognize the world and his wife but we don’t want to attract their attention.’ But she stopped their singing lovingly.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re bound to, Clara dear. It’s Mr Polly. They always stare at him.’ Miss Rickard scratched the parrot’s feathered head. Mr and Mrs Matthews smiled to one another.

  Quentin said, ‘I should have thought that the horses had been trained, Father.’ He stopped, blushing.

  ‘Of course they were trained. What a rotten silly thing to say.’ His younger brother Rupert mocked him.

  ‘I meant cruelty.’

  ‘The horses! The darling lovely horses,’ Sukey cried.

  But her twin sister Margaret said, ‘It was all beautiful. It all went together. You can’t just say the horses.’

  ‘I only liked the horses,’ Sukey insisted.

  ‘I wish I’d been the man who straddled the two white horses with his arms spread out. Crippen! Didn’t everyone cheer.’

  ‘Oh, Rupert dear, please don’t use that expression. To keep on reminding us of that dreadful little man.’

  ‘I liked the tall cowboy with the black hair. He looked so strong.’

  ‘Gladys is being soppy,’ Rupert told them.

  ‘Not at all. I’m only glad to see Podge has such a good eye.’ Mrs Matthews patted her daughter’s plump rosy cheek. ‘They were handsome, darling. You’re quite right. And their great chests! How the perspiration ran down them, poor things.’

  Her mother-in-law coughed.

  ‘So the dust is troubling you now, Grannie. Never mind. Here’s relief. The Geisha Tea Gardens. Look, children, at the waitresses all dressed in kimonos.’

  ‘I hope,’ said Miss Rickards, ‘that we shan’t be made to kneel. I haven’t done that since I was in Japan twenty years ago. My bones would creak nowadays. No, I’m too old for kneeling.’

  ‘Except in church,’ Mrs Matthews senior amended.

  ‘We don’t kneel at the Circle,’ Miss Rickards told her.

  Once again Mr and Mrs Matthews were united in smiling complicity, and on this occasion they even extended the conspiracy to include Gladys and Quentin, their two eldest. Later when the children had finished three stone bottles of pop between them, Rupert and Quentin became restless, despite all the waitresses dressed up as geishas and even little Marcus showed a sort of lordly boredom. ‘Such ugly colours,’ he said. But the twins were riveted to the gaily coloured kimonos until Margaret cried, ‘They’re just dressed up in dressing gowns, aren’t they, Mother?’ and Sukey amplified, ‘Servants dressed up,’ then seeing Stoker busy with a bath bun, she blushed. But the spell was broken and now the girls’ restiveness was added to the boys’.

  ‘Now just sit still, darlings, and your great aunt will tell you all about the real cowboys.’

  ‘Yes, give us Texas, Mouse,’ Mr Matthews agreed.

  ‘Indeed I will not. They don’t want an old woman’s stories. They want to explore all the wonders here.’ Miss Rickard gave Quentin half a crown out of her huge Morocco leather handbag. ‘See that everyone has a share.’ Old Mrs Matthews added a florin. ‘I think two shillings is enough for children.’

  ‘My dear mother, you’re spoiling them.’

  ‘Yes, Mouse, you’re naughty.’

  But neither parent spoke very convincingly.

  ‘Oh, no,’ said the old lady, ‘it’s a special day.’

  And the middle-aged one s
aid, ‘My dear Clara, when we’ve all enjoyed ourselves so much it’s sheer hypocrisy to deny the children.’

  Even Stoker intervened. ‘I’m sure, Mum, they’ve been very good. And we all like to get up to our own larks, don’t we?’

  Young Mrs Matthews laughed. ‘Do we, Billy? Do we like to get up to our own larks?’

  ‘Yes, my dear, I think we do.’ He put his hand on hers.

  ‘Oh what a heavenly summer. Especially here out of the dust. Oh Billy, I have a feeling that your Regency boxing novel is going to be a tremendous success. And we’ll have lots of money and travel everywhere. Japan will be nothing. You haven’t seen the half of it, Mouse.’

  ‘My dear, you shall live like a queen yet.’

  This time Miss Rickard exchanged a glance with old Mrs Matthews. Her niece perhaps caught sight of it, for she turned almost sharply to the children. ‘Well, your father and I are in a good mood for once. Run off and make the most of it.’