Anne's Terrible Good Nature (Collection)/The Notice-Board
THE NOTICE-BOARD
Once upon a time there was a family called Morgan—Mr. Morgan the father, Mrs. Morgan the mother, Christopher Morgan, aged twelve, Claire Morgan, aged nine, Betty Morgan, aged seven, a fox-terrier, a cat, a bullfinch, a nurse, a cook, a parlourmaid, a housemaid, and a boy named William. William hardly counts, because he came only for a few hours every day, and then lived almost wholly in the basement, and when he did appear above-stairs it was always in the company of a coal-scuttle. That was the family; and at the time this story begins it had just removed from Bloomsbury to Bayswater.
While the actual moving was going on Christopher Morgan, Claire Morgan, and Betty Morgan, with the dog and the bull- finch, had gone to Sandgate to stay with their grandmother, who, with extraordinary good sense, lived in a house with a garden that ran actually to the beach, so that, although in stormy weather the lawn was covered with pebbles, in fine summer weather you could run from your bedroom into the sea in nothing but a bath-towel or a dressing-gown, or one of those bath-towels which are dressing-gowns. Christopher used to do this, and Claire would have joined him but that the doctor forbade it on account of what he called her defective circulation—two long words which mean cold feet.
When, however, the moving was all done and the new house quite ready, the three children and the dog and the bullfinch returned to London, and getting by great good luck a taxicab at Charing Cross, were whirled to No. 23, Westerham Gardens almost in a minute, at a cost of two-and-eightpence, with fourpence supplement for the luggage. Christopher sat on the front seat, watching the meter all the time, and calling out whenever it had swallowed another twopence. The first eightpence, as you have probably also noticed, goes slowly, but after that the twopences disappear just like sweets.
It is, as you know, a very exciting thing to move to a new house. Everything seems so much better than in the last, especially the cupboards and the wallpapers. In place of the old bell-pulls you find electric bells, and there is a speaking-tube between the dining-room and the kitchen, and the coal-cellar is much larger, and the bath-room has a better arrangement of taps, and you can get hot water on the stairs. But, of course, the electric light is the most exciting thing of all, and it was so at Westerham Gardens, because in Bloomsbury there had been gas. But Mr. Morgan was exceedingly serious about it, and delivered a lecture on the importance—the vital importance—of always turning off the switch as you leave the room, unless, of course, there is some one in it.
Christopher and Claire and Betty were riotously happy in their new home for some few days, especially as they were so near Kensington Gardens, only a very little way, in fact, from the gate where the Dogs' Cemetery is.
And then suddenly they began to miss something. What it was they had no idea; but they knew that in some mysterious way, nice as the new house was, in one respect it was not so nice as the old one. Something was lacking.
It was quite by chance that they discovered what it was; for, being sent one morning to Whiteley's, on their return they entered Westerham Gardens by a new way, and there on a board fixed to the railings of the corner house they read the terrible words:
ORGANS AND STREET CRIES
PROHIBITED.
Then they all knew in an instant what it was that had vaguely been troubling them in their new house. It was a house without music—a house that stood in a neighbourhood where there were no bands, no organs, and no costermongers.
"What a horrid shame!" said Claire. And then they began to talk about the organs and bands that used to come to their old home in Bloomsbury.
"Do you remember the Italian woman in the yellow handkerchief on Thursday mornings during French?" said Christopher.
"Yes," said Betty, "and the monkey boy with the accordion on Mondays."
"And the Punch and Judy on Wednesday afternoons," said Claire.
"And 'Fresh wallflowers,' 'Nice wallflowers!' at eleven o'clock every day in spring," said Christopher.
"And the band that always played 'Poppies' on Tuesday evenings at bed-time," said Claire.
"And the organ with the panorama on Friday mornings," said Betty.
"And the best organ of all, that had one new tune every week, on Saturdays," said Christopher.
"It must be a great day for the organists when they have a new tune," said Claire.
"Yes," said Betty; "but you have forgotten the funniest of all—the old man with a wooden leg on Tuesday and Friday."
"But he had only one tune," said Christopher.
"It was a very nice tune," said Betty. "But why I liked him was because he always nodded and smiled at me."
"That was only his trick," said Christopher. "They all do that if they think you have a penny."
"I don't care," said Betty stoutly; "he did it as if he meant it."
That night, just after Claire had undressed, Christopher came in and sat on her bed. "I've got an idea," he said. "Let's have a new notice-board painted with
ORGANS AND STREET CRIES
INVITED
on it, and have it fixed on our railings. Then we shall get some music again. I reckon that Mr. Randall's son would make it just like the other for about four shillings, and that's what we've got."
Mr. Randall's son was the family carpenter, and he was called that because his father had been the family carpenter before him for many years. When his father, Mr. Randall, was alive, the son had no name, but was always referred to as Mr. Randall's son, and now that the old man was dead he was still spoken of in that way, although he was a man of fifty and had sons of his own. (But what they would be called it makes my head ache to think.)
Mr. Randall's son smiled when he was asked if he could and would make a notice-board. "I will, Master Christopher," he said; "but I'm thinking you had better spend your money on something else. A nice boat, now, for the Round Pond. Or a pair of stilts—I could make you a pair of stilts in about an hour." Poor Christopher looked wistful, and then bravely said that he would rather have the notice-board. After giving careful instructions as to the style of painting the words, he impressed upon Mr. Randall's son the importance of wrapping the board very carefully in paper when he brought it back, because it was a surprise.
"A surprise!" said Mr. Randall's son with a great hearty laugh; "I should think it will be a surprise to some of 'em. I'd like to be there to see the copper's face when he reads it."
Mr. Randall's son was not there to see the copper's face; but the copper—by which Mr. Randall's son meant the policeman—did read it in the company of about forty other persons, chiefly errand-boys and cabmen, in front of the Morgans' house on the morning after Christopher had skilfully fixed it to the area railings; and having read it he walked off quickly to the nearest police-station to take advice.
The result was that just as Mr. Morgan was leaving for the city the policeman knocked at the door and asked to see him.
Mr. Morgan soon afterwards came from the study and showed the policeman out, and then he sent for Christopher. After Christopher had confessed, "My dear boy," he said, "this won't do at all. That notice-board at the end of this street means either that the owners of Westerham Gardens or a large number of the tenants wish the neighbourhood to be free from street music. If we, who are new-comers, set up notice-boards to a contrary effect, we are doing a very rude and improper thing. I quite understand that you miss the organs that we used to have, but the only way to get them back would be to obtain the permission of every one in the Gardens; and that, of course, is absurd." With these words, which he afterwards wished he had never used, Mr. Morgan hurried off to the nearest Tube to make money in the city, which was how he spent his days.
Christopher carried the news to Claire, who at once said, "Then we must go to every house to get leave."
"Of course," said Christopher. "How ripping!"
And they started immediately.
It would take too long to tell you how they got on at each house. From some they were sent away; at others they met with sympathy.
Their words to the servant who opened the door were: "Please give your mistress the compliments of No. 23, and ask if she really wants street music to be prohibited."
"Of course we don't, my dears," said an old lady at No. 14. "We should love to have a nice pianoforte organ every now and then, or even a band; but it would never do to say so. Every one is so select about here. Why, in that house opposite lives the widow of a Lord Mayor."
Claire made a note of the number to tell Betty, who loved rank and grandeur, and then they ascended the next steps, where they found the most useful person of all, a gentleman who came down to see them, smoking a pipe and wearing carpet slippers. "In reply to your question," he said, "I should welcome street music; but the matter has nothing to do either with me or with you. It is all settled by the old lady at the corner, the house to which the notice-board is fixed. It is she who owns the property, and it is she who stops the organs. If you want to do any good you must see her. Her name is Miss Seaton, and as you will want a little cake and lemonade to give you strength for the interview, you had better come in here for a moment." So saying he led them into the dining-room, which was hung with coloured pictures of hunting and racing, and made them very comfortable, and then sent them off with best wishes for good luck.
Telling Claire to wait a moment, Christopher ran off to their own house for the board, and returned quickly with it wrapped up under his arm. He rang the bell of the corner house boldly, and then, seeing a notice which ran, "Do not knock unless an answer is required," knocked boldly, too. It was opened by an elderly butler. "Please tell Miss Seaton that Mr. and Miss Morgan from No. 23 would like to see her," said Christopher.
"On what business?" asked the butler.
"On important business to Westerham Gardens," said Christopher.
"Wait here a moment," said the butler, and creaked slowly upstairs. "Here" was the hall, and they sat on a polished mahogany form, with a little wooden roller at each end, exactly opposite a stuffed dancing bear with his arms hungry for umbrellas. Upstairs they heard a door open and a muttered conversation, and then the door shut and the butler creaked slowly down again.
"Will you come this way?" he said, and creaked slowly up once more, followed by the children, who had great difficulty in finding the steps at that pace, and showed them into a room in which was sitting an old lady in a high-backed arm-chair near the fire. On the hearthrug were five cats, and there was one in her lap and one on the table. "Oh!" thought Claire, "if only Betty was here!" For Betty not only loved rank and grandeur but adored cats.
"Well," said the old lady, "what is it?"
"If you please," said Christopher, "we have come about the notice-board outside, which says, 'Organs and street cries prohibited.'"
"Yes," Claire broke in; "you see, we have just moved to No. 23, and at our old home—in Bloomsbury, you know—there was such a lot of music, and a Punch and Judy, and there's none here, and we wondered if it really meant it."
"WE HAD IT MADE ON PURPOSE.
"Because," Christopher went on, "it seemed to us that this notice-board"—and here he unwrapped the new one—"could just as easily be put up as the one you have. We had it made on purpose." And he held it up before Miss Seaton's astonished eyes.
"'Organs and street cries invited!'" she exclaimed. "Why, I never heard such a thing in my life. They drive me frantic."
"Couldn't you put cotton-wool in your ears?" Claire asked.
"Or ask them to move a little further on—nearer No. 23?" said Christopher.
"But, my dear children," said the old lady, "you really are very wilful. I hope your father and mother don't know what you are doing."
"No," said Christopher.
"Well, sit down, both of you," said Miss Seaton, "and let us talk it over." So they sat down, and Claire took up one of the cats and stroked it behind the ears, and Miss Seaton asked them a number of questions.
After a while she rang the bell for the butler, who creaked in and out and then in again with cake and a rather good syrup to mix with water; and they gradually became quite friendly, not only with Miss Seaton, but with each of the cats in turn.
"Are there any more?" Claire asked.
"No, only seven," said Miss Seaton. "I never have more and I never have fewer."
"Do you give them all names?" said Claire.
"Of course," said Miss Seaton. "That is partly why there are only seven. I name them after the days of the week."
"Oh!" thought Claire again, "if only Betty were here!"
"The black one there, with the white front, is Sunday," Miss Seaton continued. "That all black one is Monday—black Monday, you know. The tortoiseshell is Friday. The sandy one is Saturday."
"It was on Saturday," said Christopher, "that the best organ of all used to come, the one with a new tune every week."
"The blue Persian is Wednesday," said Miss Seaton, not taking any notice of his remark. "The white Persian is Tuesday, and the grey Iceland cat is Thursday. And now," she added, "you must go home, and I will think over your request and let you have the answer."
That evening, just after the children had finished their supper, a ring came at the door, followed, after it was opened, by scuffling feet and a mysterious thud. Then the front door banged, and Annie the maid came in to say that there was a heavy box in the hall, addressed to Master and Miss Morgan. The children tore out, and found a large case with, just as Annie had said, Christopher and Claire's name upon it. Christopher rushed off for a hammer and screwdriver, and in a few minutes the case was opened. Inside was a note and a very weighty square thing in brown paper. Christopher began to undo the paper, while Claire read the note aloud:
"1, Westerham Gardens, W.
"Dear Miss and Master Morgan,
"I have been thinking about your request all the afternoon, as I promised I would, and have been compelled to decide against it in the interests not only of the property but of several of my old tenants, whose nerves cannot bear noise. But as I feel that your father, when he made inquiries about your new house, was not sufficiently informed as to the want of entertainment in the neighbourhood, I wish to make it up in so far as I can to you all for your disappointment, and therefore beg your acceptance of a musical box which was a great pleasure to me when I was much younger, and may, I trust, do something to amuse you, although the tunes are, I fear, not of the newest.
- "Believe me yours sincerely,
"Victoria Seaton."
"There, father," said Christopher, "you see she wasn't really cross at all."
"No," said Mr. Morgan; "but, all the same, this must be the last of such escapades."
Then he opened the musical box, and they found from the piece of paper inside the lid, written in violet ink in a thin, upright, rather curly foreign hand, that it had twelve tunes. Mr. Morgan wound it up, and they all stood round watching the great brass barrel, with the little spikes on it, slowly revolve, while the teeth of the comb were caught up one by one by the spikes to make the notes. There was also a little drum and a peal of silver bells. Although old, it was in excellent order, and very gentle and ripply in tone; and I wish I had been there too, for it is a long time since I heard a musical box, every one now having gramaphones with sore throats.
The first tune was "The Last Rose of Summer" and the second the beautiful prison song from "Il Trovatore." When it came to the seventh the children looked at each other and smiled.
"Why," said Betty, "that's the tune the nice man with the wooden leg on Tuesdays and Fridays always played."
And what do you think it was? It was "Home, sweet Home."