"04 - Summer Holidays" - читать интересную книгу автора (pages)

The Easter holidays came and went, and the Summer Term began at school. My grandmother and I had already planned to take our summer holiday in Norway and we talked about almost nothing else every evening. She had booked a cabin for each of us on the boat from Newcastle to Oslo at the earliest possible moment after my school broke up, and from Oslo she was going to take me to a place she knew down on the south coast near Arendal where she had spent her own summer holidays as a child nearly eighty years ago.

"All day long," she said, "my brother and I were out in the rowing-boat. The whole coast is dotted with tiny islands and there's nobody on them. We used to explore them and dive into the sea off the lovely smooth granite rocks, and sometimes on the way out we would drop the anchor and fish for cod and whiting, and if we caught anything we would build a fire on an island and fry the fish in a pan for our lunch. There is no finer fish in the world than absolutely fresh cod."

"What did you use for bait, Grandmamma, when you went fishing?"

"Mussels," she said. "Everyone uses mussels for bait in Norway. And if we didn't catch any fish, we would boil the mussels in a saucepan and eat those."

"Were they good?"

"Delicious," she said. "Cook them in sea-water and they are tender and salty."

"What else did you do, Grandmamma?"

"We used to row out and wave to the shrimpboats on their way home, and .they would stop and give us a handful of shrimps each. The shrimps were still warm from having been just cooked, and we would sit in the rowing-boat peeling them and gobbling them up. The head was the best part."

"The head?" I said.

"You squeeze the head between your teeth and suck out the inside. It's marvellous. You and I will do all those things this summer, my darling," she said.

"Grandmamma," I said, "I can't wait. I simply can't wait to go."

"Nor can I," she said.

When there were only three weeks of the Summer Term left, an awful thing happened. My grandmother got pneumonia. She became very ill, and a trained nurse moved into the house to look after her. The doctor explained to me that pneumonia is not normally a dangerous illness nowadays because of penicillin, but when a person is more than eighty years old, as my grandmother was, then it is very dangerous indeed. He said he didn't even dare to move her to hospital in her condition, so she stayed in her bedroom and I hung about out­side the door while oxygen cylinders and all sorts of other frightening things were taken in to her.

"Can I go in and see her?" I asked.

"No, dear," the nurse said. "Not at the moment."

A fat and jolly lady called Mrs Spring, who used to come and clean our house every day, also moved in and slept in the house. Mrs Spring looked after me and cooked my meals. I liked her very much, but she wasn't a patch on my grandmother for telling stories.

One evening, about ten days later, the doctor came downstairs and said to me, "You can go in and see her now, but only for a short time. She's been asking for you."

I flew up the stairs and burst into my grandmother's room and threw myself into her arms.

"Hey there," the nurse said. "Be careful with her."

"Will you be all right now, Grandmamma?" I asked.

"The worst is over," she said. "I'll soon be up again."

"Will she?" I said to the nurse.

"Oh yes," the nurse answered, smiling. "She told us she simply had to get better because she had to look after you."

I gave her another hug.

"They won't let me have a cigar," she said. "But you wait till they're gone."

"She's a tough old bird," the nurse said. "We'll have her up in another week."

The nurse was right. Within a week, my grandmother was thumping around the house with her gold-topped cane and interfering with Mrs Spring's cooking. "I thank you for all your help, Mrs Spring," she said, "but you can go home now."

"Oh, no I can't," Mrs Spring said. "Doctor told me to see that you take it very easy for the next few days."

The doctor said more than that. He dropped a bombshell on my grandmother and me by telling us that on no account were we to risk the journey to Norway this summer.

"Rubbish!" my grandmother cried. "I've promised him we'll go!"

"It's too far," the doctor said. "It would be very dangerous. But I'll tell you what you can do. You can take your grandson to a nice hotel on the south coast of England instead. The sea air is just what you need."

"Oh no!" I said.

"Do you want your grandmother to die?" the doctor asked me.

"Never!" I said.

"Then don't let her go on a long journey this summer. She's not yet strong enough. And stop her smoking those vile black cigars."

In the end, the doctor had his way about the holiday, but not about the cigars. Rooms were booked for us in a place called the Hotel Magnificent in the famous seaside town of Bournemouth. Bournemouth, my grandmother told me, was full of old people like herself. They retired there by the thousand because the air was so bracing and healthy it kept them, so they believed, alive for a few extra years.

"Does it?" I asked.

"Of course not," she said: "It's tommyrot. But just for once I think we've got to obey the doctor."

Soon after that, my grandmother and I took the train to Bournemouth and settled into the Hotel Magnificent. It was an enormous white building on the sea-front and it looked to me like a pretty boring place to spend a summer holiday in. I had my own separate bedroom, but there was a door connecting my room with my grandmother's room so that we could visit each other without going into the corridor.

Just before we left for Bournemouth, my grandmother had given me, as consolation, a present of two white mice in a little cage and of course I took them with me. They were terrific fun, those mice. I called them William and Mary, and in the hotel I set out right away teaching them to do tricks. The first trick I taught them was to creep up the sleeve of my jacket and come out by my neck. Then I taught them to climb up the back of my neck on to the top of my head. I did this by putting cake crumbs in my hair.

On the very first morning after our arrival, the chambermaid was making my bed when one of my mice poked its head out from under the sheets. The maid let out a shriek that brought a dozen people running to see who was being murdered. I was reported to the Manager. There followed an unpleasant scene in the Manager's office with the Manager, my grandmother and me.

The Manager, whose name was Mr Stringer, was a bristly man in a black tail-coat. "I cannot permit mice in my hotel, madam," he said to my grandmother.

"How dare you say that when your rotten hotel is full of rats anyway!" my grandmother cried.

"Rats!" cried Mr Stringer, going mauve in the face. "There are no rats in this hotel!"

"I saw one this very morning," my grandmother said. "It was running down the corridor into the kitchen!"

"That is not true!" cried Mr Stringer.

"You had better get the rat-catcher in at once," my grandmother said, "before I report you to the Public Health Authorities. I expect there's rats scuttling all over the kitchen floor and stealing the food off the shelves and jumping in and out of the soup!"

"Never!" cried Mr Stringer.

"No wonder my breakfast toast was all nibbled round the edges this morning," my grandmother went on relentlessly. "No wonder it had a nasty ratty taste. If you're not careful, the Health people will be ordering the entire hotel to be closed before everyone gets typhoid fever."

"You are not being serious, madam," Mr Stringer said.

"I was never more serious in my life," my grand­mother said. "Are you or are you not going to allow my grandson to keep his white mice in his room?"

The Manager knew when he was beaten. "May I suggest a compromise, madam?" he said. "I will permit him to keep them in his room as long as they are never allowed out of the cage. How's that?"

"That will suit us very well," my grandmother said, and she stood up and marched out of the room with me behind her.

There is no way you can train mice inside a cage. Yet I dared not let them out because the chambermaid was spying on me all the time. She had a, key to my door and she kept bursting in at all hours, trying to catch me with the mice out of the cage. She told me that the first mouse to break the rules would be drowned in a bucket of water by the hall-porter.

I decided to seek a safer place where I could carry on with the training. There must surely be an empty room in this enormous hotel. I put one mouse into each trouser-pocket and wandered downstairs in search of a secret spot.

The Easter holidays came and went, and the Summer Term began at school. My grandmother and I had already planned to take our summer holiday in Norway and we talked about almost nothing else every evening. She had booked a cabin for each of us on the boat from Newcastle to Oslo at the earliest possible moment after my school broke up, and from Oslo she was going to take me to a place she knew down on the south coast near Arendal where she had spent her own summer holidays as a child nearly eighty years ago.

"All day long," she said, "my brother and I were out in the rowing-boat. The whole coast is dotted with tiny islands and there's nobody on them. We used to explore them and dive into the sea off the lovely smooth granite rocks, and sometimes on the way out we would drop the anchor and fish for cod and whiting, and if we caught anything we would build a fire on an island and fry the fish in a pan for our lunch. There is no finer fish in the world than absolutely fresh cod."

"What did you use for bait, Grandmamma, when you went fishing?"

"Mussels," she said. "Everyone uses mussels for bait in Norway. And if we didn't catch any fish, we would boil the mussels in a saucepan and eat those."

"Were they good?"

"Delicious," she said. "Cook them in sea-water and they are tender and salty."

"What else did you do, Grandmamma?"

"We used to row out and wave to the shrimpboats on their way home, and .they would stop and give us a handful of shrimps each. The shrimps were still warm from having been just cooked, and we would sit in the rowing-boat peeling them and gobbling them up. The head was the best part."

"The head?" I said.

"You squeeze the head between your teeth and suck out the inside. It's marvellous. You and I will do all those things this summer, my darling," she said.

"Grandmamma," I said, "I can't wait. I simply can't wait to go."

"Nor can I," she said.

When there were only three weeks of the Summer Term left, an awful thing happened. My grandmother got pneumonia. She became very ill, and a trained nurse moved into the house to look after her. The doctor explained to me that pneumonia is not normally a dangerous illness nowadays because of penicillin, but when a person is more than eighty years old, as my grandmother was, then it is very dangerous indeed. He said he didn't even dare to move her to hospital in her condition, so she stayed in her bedroom and I hung about out­side the door while oxygen cylinders and all sorts of other frightening things were taken in to her.

"Can I go in and see her?" I asked.

"No, dear," the nurse said. "Not at the moment."

A fat and jolly lady called Mrs Spring, who used to come and clean our house every day, also moved in and slept in the house. Mrs Spring looked after me and cooked my meals. I liked her very much, but she wasn't a patch on my grandmother for telling stories.

One evening, about ten days later, the doctor came downstairs and said to me, "You can go in and see her now, but only for a short time. She's been asking for you."

I flew up the stairs and burst into my grandmother's room and threw myself into her arms.

"Hey there," the nurse said. "Be careful with her."

"Will you be all right now, Grandmamma?" I asked.

"The worst is over," she said. "I'll soon be up again."

"Will she?" I said to the nurse.

"Oh yes," the nurse answered, smiling. "She told us she simply had to get better because she had to look after you."

I gave her another hug.

"They won't let me have a cigar," she said. "But you wait till they're gone."

"She's a tough old bird," the nurse said. "We'll have her up in another week."

The nurse was right. Within a week, my grandmother was thumping around the house with her gold-topped cane and interfering with Mrs Spring's cooking. "I thank you for all your help, Mrs Spring," she said, "but you can go home now."

"Oh, no I can't," Mrs Spring said. "Doctor told me to see that you take it very easy for the next few days."

The doctor said more than that. He dropped a bombshell on my grandmother and me by telling us that on no account were we to risk the journey to Norway this summer.

"Rubbish!" my grandmother cried. "I've promised him we'll go!"

"It's too far," the doctor said. "It would be very dangerous. But I'll tell you what you can do. You can take your grandson to a nice hotel on the south coast of England instead. The sea air is just what you need."

"Oh no!" I said.

"Do you want your grandmother to die?" the doctor asked me.

"Never!" I said.

"Then don't let her go on a long journey this summer. She's not yet strong enough. And stop her smoking those vile black cigars."

In the end, the doctor had his way about the holiday, but not about the cigars. Rooms were booked for us in a place called the Hotel Magnificent in the famous seaside town of Bournemouth. Bournemouth, my grandmother told me, was full of old people like herself. They retired there by the thousand because the air was so bracing and healthy it kept them, so they believed, alive for a few extra years.

"Does it?" I asked.

"Of course not," she said: "It's tommyrot. But just for once I think we've got to obey the doctor."

Soon after that, my grandmother and I took the train to Bournemouth and settled into the Hotel Magnificent. It was an enormous white building on the sea-front and it looked to me like a pretty boring place to spend a summer holiday in. I had my own separate bedroom, but there was a door connecting my room with my grandmother's room so that we could visit each other without going into the corridor.

Just before we left for Bournemouth, my grandmother had given me, as consolation, a present of two white mice in a little cage and of course I took them with me. They were terrific fun, those mice. I called them William and Mary, and in the hotel I set out right away teaching them to do tricks. The first trick I taught them was to creep up the sleeve of my jacket and come out by my neck. Then I taught them to climb up the back of my neck on to the top of my head. I did this by putting cake crumbs in my hair.

On the very first morning after our arrival, the chambermaid was making my bed when one of my mice poked its head out from under the sheets. The maid let out a shriek that brought a dozen people running to see who was being murdered. I was reported to the Manager. There followed an unpleasant scene in the Manager's office with the Manager, my grandmother and me.

The Manager, whose name was Mr Stringer, was a bristly man in a black tail-coat. "I cannot permit mice in my hotel, madam," he said to my grandmother.

"How dare you say that when your rotten hotel is full of rats anyway!" my grandmother cried.

"Rats!" cried Mr Stringer, going mauve in the face. "There are no rats in this hotel!"

"I saw one this very morning," my grandmother said. "It was running down the corridor into the kitchen!"

"That is not true!" cried Mr Stringer.

"You had better get the rat-catcher in at once," my grandmother said, "before I report you to the Public Health Authorities. I expect there's rats scuttling all over the kitchen floor and stealing the food off the shelves and jumping in and out of the soup!"

"Never!" cried Mr Stringer.

"No wonder my breakfast toast was all nibbled round the edges this morning," my grandmother went on relentlessly. "No wonder it had a nasty ratty taste. If you're not careful, the Health people will be ordering the entire hotel to be closed before everyone gets typhoid fever."

"You are not being serious, madam," Mr Stringer said.

"I was never more serious in my life," my grand­mother said. "Are you or are you not going to allow my grandson to keep his white mice in his room?"

The Manager knew when he was beaten. "May I suggest a compromise, madam?" he said. "I will permit him to keep them in his room as long as they are never allowed out of the cage. How's that?"

"That will suit us very well," my grandmother said, and she stood up and marched out of the room with me behind her.

There is no way you can train mice inside a cage. Yet I dared not let them out because the chambermaid was spying on me all the time. She had a, key to my door and she kept bursting in at all hours, trying to catch me with the mice out of the cage. She told me that the first mouse to break the rules would be drowned in a bucket of water by the hall-porter.

I decided to seek a safer place where I could carry on with the training. There must surely be an empty room in this enormous hotel. I put one mouse into each trouser-pocket and wandered downstairs in search of a secret spot.