The Collected Stories

  ‘Good, good.’ And Mr Dutt gave Miss Efoss the details, which she noted in her diary.

  Mr and Mrs Dutt looked alike. They were small and thin with faces like greyhounds. ‘We have had such difficulty in finding someone suitable to sit for us,’ Mrs Dutt said. ‘All these young girls, Miss Efoss, scarcely inspire confidence.’

  ‘We are a nervous pair, Miss Efoss,’ Mr Dutt said, laughing gently as he handed her a glass of sherry. ‘We are a nervous pair and that’s the truth of it.’

  ‘There is only Mickey, you see,’ explained his wife. ‘I suppose we worry a bit. Though we try not to spoil him.’

  Miss Efoss nodded. ‘An only child is sometimes a problem.’

  The Dutts agreed, staring intently at Miss Efoss, as though recognizing in her some profound quality.

  ‘We have, as you see, the television,’ Mr Dutt remarked. ‘You would not be lonely here of an evening. The radio as well. Both are simple to operate and are excellent performers.’

  ‘And Mickey has never woken up,’ said Mrs Dutt. ‘Our system is to leave our telephone behind. Thus you may easily contact us.’

  ‘Ha, ha, ha.’ Mr Dutt was laughing. His tiny face was screwed into an unusual shape, the skin drawn tightly over his gleaming cheekbones.

  ‘What an amusing thing to say, Beryl! My wife is fond of a joke, Miss Efoss.’

  Unaware that a joke had been made, Miss Efoss smiled.

  ‘It would be odd if we did not leave our telephone behind,’ Mr Dutt went on. ‘We leave the telephone number behind, Beryl. The telephone number of the house where we are dining. You would be surprised, Miss Efoss, to receive guests who carried with them their telephone receiver. Eh?’

  ‘It would certainly be unusual.’

  ‘ “We have brought our own telephone, since we do not care to use another.” Or: “We have brought our telephone in case anyone telephones us while we are here.” Miss Efoss, will you tell me something?’

  ‘If I can, Mr Dutt.’

  ‘Miss Efoss, have you ever looked up the word joke in the Encyclopaedia Britannica?’

  ‘I don’t think I have.’

  ‘You would find it rewarding. We have the full Encyclopaedia here, you know. It is always at your service.’

  ‘How kind of you.’

  ‘I will not tell you now what the Encyclopaedia says on the subject. I will leave you to while away a minute or two with it. I do not think you’ll find it a wasted effort.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t.’

  ‘My husband is a great devotee of the Encyclopaedia,’ Mrs Dutt said. ‘He spends much of his time with it.’

  ‘It is not always pleasure,’ Mr Dutt said. ‘The accumulation of information on many subjects is part of my work.’

  ‘Your work, Mr Dutt?’

  ‘Like many, nowadays, Miss Efoss, my husband works for his living.’

  ‘You have some interesting job, Mr Dutt?’

  ‘Interesting, eh? Yes, I suppose it is interesting. More than that I cannot reveal. That is so, eh, Beryl?’

  ‘My husband is on the secret list. He is forbidden to speak casually about his work. Alas, even to someone to whom we trust our child. It’s a paradox, isn’t it?’

  ‘I quite understand. Naturally, Mr Dutt’s work is no affair of mine.’

  ‘To speak lightly about it would mean marching orders for me,’ Mr Dutt said. ‘No offence, I hope?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Sometimes people take offence. We have had some unhappy occasions, eh, Beryl?’

  ‘People do not always understand what it means to be on the secret list, Miss Efoss. So little is taken seriously nowadays.’

  Mr Dutt hovered over Miss Efoss with his sherry decanter. He filled her glass and his wife’s. He said:

  ‘Well, Miss Efoss, what do you think of us? Can you accept the occasional evening in this room, watching our television and listening for the cry of our child?’

  ‘Naturally, Miss Efoss, there would always be supper,’ Mrs Dutt said.

  ‘With sherry before and brandy to finish with,’ Mr Dutt added.

  ‘You are very generous. I can quite easily have something before I arrive.’

  ‘No, no, no. It is out of the question. My wife is a good cook. And I can be relied upon to keep the decanters brimming.’

  ‘You have made it all so pleasant I am left with no option. I should be delighted to help you out when I can manage it.’

  Miss Efoss finished her sherry and rose. The Dutts rose also, smiling benignly at their satisfactory visitor.

  ‘Well then,’ Mr Dutt said in the hall, ‘would Tuesday evening be a time you could arrange, Miss Efoss? We are bidden to dine with friends near by.’

  ‘Tuesday? Yes, I think Tuesday is all right. About seven?’

  Mrs Dutt held out her hand. ‘Seven would be admirable. Till then, Miss Efoss.’

  On Tuesday Mr Dutt opened the door to Miss Efoss and led her to the sitting-room. His wife, he explained, was still dressing. Making conversation as he poured Miss Efoss a drink, he said:

  ‘I married my wife when she was on the point of entering a convent, Miss Efoss. What d’you think of that?’

  ‘Well,’ Miss Efoss said, settling herself comfortably before the cosy-stove, ‘it is hard to know what to say, Mr Dutt. I am surprised, I suppose.’

  ‘Most people are surprised. I often wonder if I did the right thing. Beryl would have made a fine nun. What d’you think?’

  ‘I’m sure you both knew what you were doing at the time. It is equally certain that Mrs Dutt would have been a fine nun.’

  ‘She had chosen a particularly severe order. That’s just like Beryl, isn’t it?’

  ‘I hardly know Mrs Dutt. But if it is like her to have made that choice, I can well believe it.’

  ‘You see my wife as a serious person, Miss Efoss? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘In the short time I have known her, yes I think I do. Yet you also say she relishes a joke.’

  ‘A joke, Miss Efoss?’

  ‘So you remarked the other evening. In relation to a slip in her speech.’

  ‘Ah yes. How right you are. You must forgive me if my memory is often faulty. My work is wearing.’

  Mrs Dutt, gaily attired, entered the room. ‘Here, Miss Efoss,’ she said, proffering a piece of paper, ‘is the telephone number of the house we are going to. If Mickey makes a sound please ring us up. L will immediately return.’

  ‘Oh, but I’m sure that’s not necessary. It would be a pity to spoil your evening so. I could at least attempt to comfort him.’

  ‘I would prefer the other arrangement. Mickey does not take easily to strangers. His room is at the top of the house, but please do not enter it. Were he to wake suddenly and catch sight of you he might be extremely frightened. He is quite a nervous child. At the slightest untoward sound do not hesitate to telephone.’

  ‘As you wish it, Mrs Dutt. I only suggested –’

  ‘Experience has taught me, Miss Efoss, what is best. I have laid you a tray in the kitchen. Everything is cold, but quite nice, I think.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Then we will be away. We should be back by eleven fifteen.’

  ‘Do have a good evening.’

  The Dutts said they intended to have a good evening, whispered for a moment together in the hall and were on their way. Miss Efoss looked critically about her.

  The room was of an ordinary kind. Utrillo prints on plain grey walls. Yellowish curtains, yellowish chair-covers, a few pieces of simple furniture on a thick grey carpet. It was warm, the sherry was good and Miss Efoss was comfortable. It was pleasant, she reflected, to have a change of scene without the obligation of conversation. In a few moments, she carried her supper tray from the kitchen to the fire. As good as his word, Mr Dutt had left some brandy. Miss Efoss began to think the Dutts were quite a find.

  She had dropped off to sleep when they returned. Fortunately, she heard them in the hall and had time to compose her
self.

  ‘All well?’ Mrs Dutt asked.

  ‘Not a sound.’

  ‘Well, I’d better change him right away. Thank you so much, Miss Efoss.’

  ‘Thank you. I have spent a very pleasant evening.’

  ‘I’ll drive you back,’ Mr Dutt offered. ‘The car is still warm.’

  In the car Mr Dutt said: ‘A child is a great comfort. Mickey is a real joy for us. And company for Beryl. The days hangs heavy when one is alone all day.’

  ‘Yes, a child is a comfort.’

  ‘Perhaps you think we are too careful and fussing about Mickey?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s better than erring in the other direction.’

  ‘It is only because we are so grateful.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We have much to be thankful for.’

  ‘I’m sure you deserve it all.’

  Mr Dutt had become quite maudlin by the time he delivered Miss Efoss at her flat. She wondered if he was drunk. He pressed her hand warmly and announced that he looked forward to their next meeting. ‘Any time,’ Miss Efoss said as she stepped from the car. ‘Just ring me up. I am often free.’

  After that, Miss Efoss babysat for the Dutts many times. They became more and more friendly towards her. They left her little bowls of chocolates and drew her attention to articles in magazines that they believed might be of interest to her. Mr Dutt suggested further words she might care to look up in the Encyclopaedia and Mrs Dutt wrote out several of her recipes.

  One night, just as she was leaving, Miss Efoss said: ‘You know, I think it might be a good idea for me to meet Mickey some time. Perhaps I could come in the daytime once. Then I would no longer be a stranger and could comfort him if he woke.’

  ‘But he doesn’t wake, Miss Efoss. He has never woken, has he? You have never had to telephone us.’

  ‘No. That is true. But now that I have got to know you, I would like to know him as well.’

  The Dutts took the compliment, smiling at one another and at Miss Efoss. Mr Dutt said: ‘It is kind of you to speak like this, Miss Efoss. But Mickey is rather scared of strangers. Just at present at any rate, if you do not mind.’

  ‘Of course not, Mr Dutt.’

  ‘I fear he is a nervous child,’ Mrs Dutt said. ‘Our present arrangement is carefully devised.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Miss Efoss said.

  ‘No need. No need. Let us all have a final brandy,’ Mr Dutt said cheerfully.

  But Miss Efoss was sorry, for she feared she had said something out of place. And then for a week or so she was worried whenever she thought of the Dutts. She felt they were mistaken in their attitude about their child; and she felt equally unable to advise them. It was not her place to speak any further on the subject, yet she was sure that to keep the child away from people just because he was nervous of them was wrong. It sounded as though there was a root to the trouble somewhere, and it sounded as though the Dutts had not attempted to discover it. She continued to babysit for them about once every ten days and she held her peace. Then, quite unexpectedly, something happened that puzzled Miss Efoss very much indeed.

  It happened at a party given by some friends of hers. She was talking about nothing in particular to an elderly man called Summerfield. She had known him for some years but whenever they met, as on this occasion, they found themselves with little to say beyond the initial courteous greetings. Thinking that a more direct approach might yield something of interest, Miss Efoss, after the familiar lengthy silence, said: ‘How are you coping with the advancing years, Mr Summerfield? I feel I can ask you, since it is a coping I have to take in my own stride.’

  ‘Well, well, I think I am doing well enough. My life is simple since my wife died, but there is little I complain of.’

  ‘Loneliness is a thing that sometimes strikes at us. I find one must regard it as the toothache or similar ailment, and seek a cure.’

  ‘Ah yes. I’m often a trifle alone.’

  ‘I babysit, you know. Have you ever thought of it? Do not shy off because you are a man. A responsible person is all that is required.’

  ‘I haven’t thought of babysitting. Not ever, I think. Though I like babies and always have done.’

  ‘I used to do quite a lot. Now I have only the Dutts, but I go there very often. I enjoy my evenings. I like to see the TV now and again and other people’s houses are interesting.’

  ‘I know the Dutts,’ said Mr Summerfield. ‘You mean the Dutts in Raeburn Road? A small, weedy couple?’

  ‘They live in Raeburn Road, certainly. They are small too, but you are unkind to call them weedy.’

  ‘I don’t particularly mean it unkindly. I have known Dutt a long time. One takes liberties, I suppose, in describing people.’

  ‘Mr Dutt is an interesting person. He holds some responsible position of intriguing secrecy.’

  ‘Dutt? 25 Raeburn Road? The man is a chartered accountant.’

  ‘I feel sure you are mistaken –’

  ‘I cannot be mistaken. The man was once my colleague. In a very junior capacity.’

  ‘Oh, well… then I must be mistaken.’

  ‘What surprises me is that you say you babysit for the Dutts. I think you must be mistaken about that too.’

  ‘Oh no, I am completely certain about that. It is for that reason that I know them at all.’

  ‘I cannot help being surprised. Because, Miss Efoss – and of this I am certain – the Dutts have no children.’

  Miss Efoss had heard of the fantasy world with which people, as they grow old, surround themselves. Yet she could not have entirely invented the Dutts in this way because Mr Summerfield had readily agreed about their existence. Was it, then, for some other reason that she visited them? Did she, as soon as she entered their house, become so confused in her mind that she afterwards forgot the real purpose of her presence? Had they hired her in some other capacity altogether? A capacity she was so ashamed of that she had invented, even for herself, the euphemism of babysitting? Had she, she wondered, become some kind of servant to these people – imagining the warm comfortable room, the sherry, the chocolates, the brandy?

  ‘We should be back by eleven, Miss Efoss. Here is the telephone number.’ Mrs Dutt smiled at her and a moment later the front door banged gently behind her.

  It is all quite real, Miss Efoss thought. There is the sherry. There is the television set. In the kitchen on a tray I shall find my supper. It is all quite real: it is old Mr Summerfield who is wandering in his mind. It was only when she had finished her supper that she had the idea of establishing her role beyond question. All she had to do was to go upstairs and peep at the child. She knew how to be quiet: there was no danger of waking him.

  The first room she entered was full of suitcases and cardboard boxes. In the second she heard breathing and knew she was right. She snapped on the light and looked around her. It was brightly painted, with a wallpaper with elves on it. There was a rocking horse and a great pile of coloured bricks. In one of the far corners there was a large cot. It was very large and very high and it contained the sleeping figure of a very old man.

  When the Dutts returned Miss Efoss said nothing. She was frightened and she didn’t quite know why she was frightened. She was glad when she was back in her flat. The next day she telephoned her niece in Devon and asked if she might come down and stay for a bit.

  Miss Efoss spoke to nobody about the Dutts. She gathered her strength in the country and returned to London at the end of a fortnight feeling refreshed and rational. She wrote a note to the Dutts saying she had decided to babysit no more. She gave no reason, but she said she hoped they would understand. Then, as best she could, she tried to forget all about them.

  A year passed and then, one grey cold Sunday afternoon, Miss Efoss saw the Dutts in a local park. They were sitting on a bench, huddled close together and seeming miserable. For a reason that she was afterwards unable to fathom Miss Efoss approached them.

  ‘Good afternoon.’

&
nbsp; The Dutts looked up at her, their thin, pale faces unsmiling and unhappy.

  ‘Hullo, Miss Efoss,’ Mr Dutt said. ‘We haven’t seen you for a long time, have we? How are you this nasty weather?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you. And you? And Mrs Dutt?’

  Mr Dutt rose and drew Miss Efoss a few yards away from his wife. ‘Beryl has taken it badly,’ he said. ‘Mickey died. Beryl has not been herself since. You understand how it is?’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

  ‘I try to cheer her up, but I’m afraid my efforts are all in vain. I have taken it hard myself too. Which doesn’t make anything any easier.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Mr Dutt. It’s a great sadness for both of you.’

  Mr Dutt took Miss Efoss’s arm and led her back to the seat. ‘I have told Miss Efoss,’ he said to his wife. Mrs Dutt nodded.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Miss Efoss said again.

  The Dutts looked at her, their sad, intent eyes filled with a pathetic desire for comfort. There was something almost hypnotic about them.

  ‘I must go,’ Miss Efoss said. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘They have all died, Miss Efoss,’ Mr Dutt said. ‘One by one they have all died.’

  Miss Efoss paused in her retreat. She could think of nothing to say except that she was sorry.

  ‘We are childless again,’ Mr Dutt went on. ‘It is almost unbearable to be childless again. We are so fond of them and here we are, not knowing what to do on a Sunday afternoon because we are a childless couple. The human frame, Miss Efoss, is not built to carry such misfortunes.’

  ‘It is callous of me to say so, Mr Dutt, but the human frame is pretty resilient. It does not seem so at times like this I know, but you will find it is so in retrospect.’

  ‘You are a wise woman, Miss Efoss, but, as you say, it is hard to accept wisdom at a moment like this. We have lost so many over the years. They are given to us and then abruptly they are taken away. It is difficult to understand God’s infinite cruelty.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Dutt. Goodbye, Mrs Dutt.’

  They did not reply, and Miss Efoss walked quickly away.

  Miss Efoss began to feel older. She walked with a stick; she found the cinema tired her eyes; she read less and discovered that she was bored by the effort of sustaining long conversations. She accepted each change quite philosophically, pleased that she could do so. She found, too, that there were compensations; she enjoyed, more and more, thinking about the past. Quite vividly, she relived the parts she wished to relive. Unlike life itself, it was pleasant to be able to pick and choose.