The Pursuit of Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

to the accompaniment of Galli Curd on his gramophone, an abnormally loud one, with an enormous horn, through which would be shrieked ‘Una voce poco fà’ – ‘The Mad Song’ from
Lucia
– ‘Lo, here the gen-tel lar-ha-hark’ – and so on, played at top speed, thus rendering them even higher and more screeching than they ought to be.
    Nothing reminds me of my childhood days at Alconleigh so much as those songs. Uncle Matthew played them incessantly for years, until the spell was broken when he went all the wayto Liverpool to hear Galli Curci in person. The disillusionment caused by her appearance was so great that the records remained ever after silent, and were replaced by the deepest bass voices that money could buy.
    ‘Fearful the death of the diver must be,
    Walking alone in the de-he-he-he-he-epths of the sea’ or ‘Drake is going West, lads.’
    These were, on the whole, welcomed by the family, as rather less piercing at early dawn.
    *
     
    ‘Why should she want to be married?’
    ‘It’s not as though she could be in love. She’s forty.’
    Like all the very young we took it for granted that making love is child’s play.
    ‘How old do you suppose he is?’
    ‘Fifty or sixty I guess. Perhaps she thinks it would be nice to be a widow. Weeds, you know.’
    ‘Perhaps she thinks Fanny ought to have a man’s influence.’
    ‘Man’s influence!’ said Louisa. ‘I forsee trouble. Supposing he falls in love with Fanny, that’ll be a pretty kettle of fish, like Somerset and Princess Elizabeth – he’ll be playing rough games and pinching you in bed, see if he doesn’t’
    ‘Surely not, at his age.’
    ‘Old men love little girls.’
    ‘And little boys,’ said Bob.
    ‘It looks as if Aunt Sadie isn’t going to say anything about it before they come,’ I said.
    ‘There’s nearly a week to go – she may be deciding. She’ll talk it over with Fa. Might be worth listening next time she has a bath. You can, Bob.’
    *
     
    Christmas Day was spent, as usual at Alconleigh, between alternate bursts of sunshine and showers. I put, as children can, the disturbing news about Aunt Emily out of my mind, and concentrated upon enjoyment. At about six o’clock Linda andI unstuck our sleepy eyes and started on our stockings. Our real presents came later, at breakfast and on the tree, but the stockings were a wonderful
hors d’œuvre
and full of treasures. Presently Jassy came in and started selling us things out of hers. Jassy only cared about money because she was saving up to run away – she carried her post office book about with her everywhere, and always knew to a farthing what she had got. This was then translated by a miracle of determination as Jassy was very bad at sums, into so many days in a bed-sitting-room.
    ‘How are you getting on, Jassy?’
    ‘My fare to London and a month and two days and an hour and a half in a bed-sitter, with basin and breakfast.’
    Where the other meals would come from was left to the imagination. Jassy studied advertisements of bed-sitters in
The Times
every morning. The cheapest she had found so far was in Clapham. So eager was she for the cash that would transform her dream into reality, that one could be certain of picking up a few bargains round about Christmas and her birthday. Jassy at this time was aged eight.
    I must admit that my wicked parents turned up trumps at Christmas, and my presents from them were always the envy of the entire household. This year my mother, who was in Paris, sent a gilded bird-cage full of stuffed humming-birds which, when wound up, twittered and hopped about and drank at a fountain. She also sent a fur hat and a gold and topaz bracelet, whose glamour was enhanced by the fact that Aunt Sadie considered them unsuitable for a child, and said so. My father sent a pony and cart, a very smart and beautiful little outfit, which had arrived some days before, and been secreted by Josh in the stables.
    ‘So typical of that damned fool