Aunts and Pianos was first published in The Windsor Magazine, Vol 63 1925-26.
BOBBY DEACON at the age of fifty-five was a very busy young man; no one had so many engagements to little lunch-parties and tea-parties and dinner-parties. He had in fact made a firm rule never to do a cross-word puzzle till the evening paper came in, for, if he permitted himself to attack one after lunch, the brisk walk he took every day for the preservation of his youthful figure was sadly curtailed, while if he yielded to temptation after breakfast there was no telling when he would get to his piano, which was the serious work of the day. He played prettily with a butterfly-touch which flitted over the keys with an agreeable lightness, and in his drawing-room, which he called “the music-room,” there were two grand-pianos. He had bought one himself, the other had lately been left him by a charming old lady with whom he used to play simple duets. She had in her will expressed a hope that he would often use it, and think of the melodious hours they had spent together. So Bobby, who was of a very affectionate and sentimental nature, constantly played on it, though it was thin and stiff and of a chirping tone, and did not suit the butterfly-touch. In fact, it was very bad for the butterfly-touch, for you had to slap the notes, instead of just alighting on them and sipping their honey. He alluded to the instrument always as “Aunt Martha,” by which endearing title he had always addressed the deceased who, though no relation of his, was thus adopted by affection. Martha had been her Christian name, and “Aunt” was added out of respect for her superior years. “I had a good go with Aunt Martha this morning,” was Bobby’s bright way of telling his friends at lunch that he had been very industrious.
Bobby lived a good deal among aunts of this description; most of the little lunches and teas and dinners which filled up so large a part of his busy day were taken at the houses of elderly ladies, widows and spinsters for the most part, who called him Bobby or naughty boy. They lived chiefly in the Boltons, or, as Bobby said, the Bromptons, and told him all about their troubles with kitchen-maids, their difficulties in getting the right shades of silk for their embroidery, the aches they had in their venerable joints in this cold weather, and their plans for their holidays. Bobby listened with sympathetic interest to all these deep problems of life, and cheered them up with amusing little bits of gossip from Mayfair, where he often went to tea, and did cross-word puzzles with Dowager Countesses. Bobby did not dine or lunch much with those modish dames, but he was in considerable request at tea-time when men were at their clubs or not yet back from their offices. This suited him very well, for, though quite sociable, he did not care for the society of his own sex, and felt that they had not much to say to each other, for he took no interest in masculine topics, such as sport and games. Nor did he care for the society of girls, and though he really took great pains in order to interest and amuse them with the little stories the aunts liked so much (though they bridled and called him naughty), sometimes a girl would burst out laughing quite unexpectedly and call him a dear old thing, which he thought singularly irrelevant as well as quite untrue. Or else she would merely yawn, which was rude…. Girls all seemed to him to be indistinguishable from each other with their cropped hair, and long sunburned-stockinged legs….
“And it’s even worse if they’ve got hats on,” said Bobby to Mrs. Fakenham, who had lately become Aunt Judy, “and then I never recognise them at all. If men wore on their heads scarlet straw waste-paper baskets which came down to the end of their noses, and painted their lips the colour of their hats, and never took a cigarette out of their mouths, they wouldn’t expect to be recognised. But girls do expect me to recognise them, Aunt Judy. I can’t bother myself with them.”
Aunt Judy sneezed several times, for she had a frantic cold in her head, and then held up a reproving forefinger.
“You’re a very spoilt boy,” she said wheezily. “You don’t take any trouble with girls.”
“Indeed I do,” said Bobby, “but I never know who they are, or what to talk to them about. Even if they are pretty I can’t see their faces, and when they take their hats off, I think they’re boys, and boys are odious. I’m glad there are no boys or girls here to-night.”
Aunt Judy had distinct remains of coquettishness about her.
“Nonsense, Bobby,” she said. “Fancy your pretending that you prefer to come and dine alone with an old woman like me to having some pretty girl to take in to dinner. But I thought I would be selfish to-night, and have you all to myself. Next Thursday, when you’re dining with me again, there will be a little party, and you’ll have to be host at dinner, and play to us afterwards.”
“I shall enjoy to-night most,” said Bobby, who always flattered his aunts.
Aunt Judy, as usual, gave him a remarkably good dinner, and Bobby, who was greedy, liked that. A cross-word puzzle succeeded, and as he had done a little work at it already (though it was not necessary to mention that), he was very brilliant about it. Then Aunt Judy thought she would like to try Brahms’s Hungarian dances arranged for four hands, and of course Bobby had to say that he positively preferred playing the bass, which was tactful though false. Indeed, playing the piano at all in Aunt Judy’s house was always a trial, for the instrument was an antique Hobbner concert-grand of ear-splitting quality with two notes in the bass that stuck when struck and wouldn’t leave off sounding, and one that produced no sound at all. And playing with Aunt Judy did not mend matters, for she filled up most of the seating capacity opposite the keyboard, and Bobby was squeezed away at the lower end of it, where he could hardly see the music. When in action, Aunt Judy kept her foot firmly on the loud pedal, counted in a hoarse voice, and corrected her own wrong notes, so that her counting got out, and it was impossible to tell where she was. But she enjoyed it immensely and at the end of a strenuous hour, patted his hand, and said it was a pleasure to play with him.
Bobby edged himself away when it was over, and Aunt Judy, as usual, with all the piano at her disposal, played the short prelude by Chopin with the slow big chords.
“Splendid!” said Bobby. “You played that divinely.”
She played it again and rose.
“I am proud of my piano,” she said. “Magnificent tone, is it not? My dear husband chose it for me, and it was always reckoned a very fine instrument. Now we’ll have a little gossip over the fire while you drink your whisky-and-soda. Dear me, what a dreadful cold I’ve got! And there are a hundred things I must do to-morrow.”
“If I were you I should stop at home and nurse it in this bitter weather,” said Bobby.
“Not at all!” said Aunt Judy. “Disregard a cold: that’s the way to get rid of it.”
Bobby also was full of engagements next day. He went to lunch with Mrs. Trask (Aunt Fanny), who in her faint and remote voice sang “Ich Grolle Nicht,” and several other courageous songs, which he accompanied for her on her new and rather unripe Boddington grand. She was the most devoted of all his aunts, and the richest and the least robust, and sometimes Bobby when he was not thinking what he was thinking about allowed himself to think about Aunt Fanny’s entire lack of relations…. When Aunt Fanny had finished singing, she sank, rather exhausted, on to a small chair encrusted with mother-of-pearl and tortoise-shell. Aunt Fanny was very small and all her furniture with the exception of her grand-piano was small and fragile, and Bobby trembled to think how awful would have been the crash if Aunt Judy had sunk exhausted on that chair, or indeed anywhere in Aunt Fanny’s house except on the floor. But that was not likely to happen, for he never brought the aunts into contact with each other, feeling, vaguely but correctly, that each individual aunt would take less tender interest in him, if she knew there were others.
“No one sings ‘Ich Grolle Nicht’ so beautifully as you, Aunt Fanny,” he said. “I can’t think why it should be considered only a man’s song. You make it so deliciously feminine without losing any of its bravery. And your new piano is quite splendid. You were lucky to get such a beauty. It will improve too.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said Aunt Fanny. “It wants playing on, but I think it will be satisfactory.”
Bobby applied the butterfly-touch to the keys, and got a fair effect.
“Satisfactory! I should think so,” he said. “And as for its wanting to be played on, there’s somebody who wants to play on it whenever he’s allowed.”
Bobby slid into a fluid little morsel by De Bussy, which was a favourite of Aunt Fanny’s, though Aunt Judy declared that it sounded to her like a child whimpering next door. It made Aunt Fanny feel ill and unhappy, which she liked, for one of the greatest joys of her life was feeling ill and thinking she was going to die. She gave a wan little smile when Bobby had finished.
“So sweet and miserable!” she said. “Thank you, dear. And now, Bobby, I’ve got something to tell you. Perhaps you wondered why I sang those songs just now. It was to make myself brave. I’ve got to be brave.”
“Dear Aunt Fanny, what’s the matter?” asked Bobby. “You’re not ill, not particularly ill, I mean?”
“Not worse than usual,” she said. “But my doctor has told me that it would be most unwise of me—suicidal, indeed, he said, when I pressed him—to spend the winter in England. I’ve got to go south, and I shall let this house for six months. A terrible wrench. And you’ll miss me, dear, I know.”
“It will be horrid without you,” said Bobby warmly.
Aunt Fanny sighed.
“I dare say I shall never see England again,” she said, “and I think it is only wise to make all arrangements before I go. I shall let this house, as I said; indeed, I’ve got a very good offer for it, but I don’t want to leave my new piano to be strummed on. So will you house it for me, Bobby, while I’m away? I remember your saying that your music-room was often so cold, and I thought you would like it in your dear little sitting-room by the front door.”
It seemed to Bobby that Aunt Fanny might store it, for he didn’t want it at all, but it would never do to reject any kind idea of Aunt Fanny’s. It was much wiser to accept it with alacrity and enthusiasm.
“Oh, that is good of you, Aunt Fanny,” he said. “Fancy my having that delicious piano to play on cosily in my little den. Every time I play it I shall think of you.”
“I thought you would like it,” she said. “And I shall think of you playing on it when I am far away. And if I never come back, as seems likely, I have left it you in my will.”
She gave a little gulp.
“You will have many happy years to play on it after I am gone, Bobby,” she said.
She talked about her journey a little more, as if it had been the conveyance of a corpse to its final resting-place. Bobby cheered her up, and, since Aunt Fanny made no suggestion of sending the piano to him, it was settled that he should notify the makers that it was to be taken to his house next week on the day that Aunt Fanny started for the Riviera. After that it was time for Bobby to hurry off to Curzon Street for tea, where he did a cross-word puzzle with a Marchioness.
Bobby dined that night with Miss Pattison, who was not old enough to be his aunt, for she was only a year or two his senior, and therefore was Cousin Ella. It was always lively at Cousin Ella’s, though she occasionally frightened Bobby by telling him that he ought to marry, and then casting her eyes modestly down. But she had said so with such frequency that Bobby had begun to think that she didn’t really mean that; besides, if she had intended to marry him she would probably have proposed to him by now. He preferred, however, that there should be other guests at Cousin Ella’s, but to-night, as last night with Aunt Judy, he was alone with her. As usual there was music, for Cousin Ella had a set of jazz-band instruments which she played fortissimo while Bobby thumped her Boddington boudoir-grand and tried in vain to make himself heard. When they were both thoroughly exhausted they sat over the fire, Cousin Ella in a very low chair, showing an incredible length of brawny leg.
Cousin Ella often gave Bobby delightful presents, for like most of the ladies he had chosen as aunts and cousins, she was very well off. Last Christmas she had given him a beautiful fur-coat and on his last birthday, now nearly a year ago, a handsome Chippendale mirror, and books and flowers were constantly showered on him; indeed, he seldom left the house without something pretty or useful. She lived in Cromwell Road, but, except for a party, never used the big rooms upstairs, preferring the cosiness of the little sitting-room on the ground floor, where they sat now.
“I’m going to make a change in this room, Bobby,” she said. “I’m going to hoof out the boudoir-grand and have a cottage piano. Makes more room.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” said Bobby, “it’s such a delicious one. Or perhaps you’re meaning to have it upstairs.”
“No, I shan’t do that,” said Cousin Ella, “I don’t want a piano there. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do with it. It’s somebody’s birthday next week, Bobby!”
Bobby had a feeling, like that in dreams, when the sleeper is aware that a nightmare is coming.
“Yes?” he faltered.
“Well, it’s my birthday present to you, Bobby. You always tell me what a lovely piano it is, and I shall love giving it you. There! Send round for it as soon as you like, for my new one is coming next week. Such a joy it will be to think of your playing on it.”
“Cousin Ella, it’s too good of you,” began Bobby. “But——”
“There isn’t a ‘but’,” said Cousin Ella. “I’m determined you shall have it. Don’t thank me, dear: I love giving it you, for I know how you’ll appreciate it. Order a van from Boddington’s and it will be ready for you.”
Bobby wrote to Boddington’s next morning, asking that a van should be sent on Wednesday next, first to Aunt Fanny’s to fetch her piano to his house, and then to Cousin Ella’s, to fetch hers. He had just written this, when he was rung up from Aunt Judy’s to be told that her dinner was put off, as she was seriously. ill with double pneumonia…. Poor Aunt Judy died on Saturday, and the funeral was fixed for the following Wednesday. Bobby was very much distressed and ordered some black clothes in a great hurry.
He went to the funeral on Wednesday, leaving word with his parlour-maid that two grand-pianos would presently arrive, of which the larger was to be put in the little sitting-room by the front-door, and the smaller in the music-room. He thanked Heaven that the latter was only a boudoir-grand, but, even as it was, so much furniture had to be moved out of the two rooms into the dining-room that it was difficult to see how food could possibly be dispensed there. But he could sell some of his larger pieces, and though four pianos was in excess of bare musical requirements, Bobby’s sentimental nature still went out in gratitude to the kind donors of these instruments. He might, of course, also sell his own admirable Bilhausen, but he did not want to do that, since it was far the best of the lot, so it and Aunt Martha and Cousin Ella would be fitted into the music-room, and Aunt Fanny into the little sitting-room. And he hurried away to Golder’s Green.
A light drizzle was falling, and when he came back, cold and damp and depressed from the last sad rites, it was clear that troublesome things were happening. On the pavement outside his door, shielded by a tarpaulin from the inclemencies of the weather, stood the smaller Cousin Ella, while the larger Aunt Fanny completely blocked the narrow passage within. By no sleight of hand, so the pessimistic foreman told him, could she possibly be introduced into the little room for which she was intended unless the window were taken out, the area-railings pulled up, and a crane erected to swing her in. Even then this engineering feat seemed highly risky, for the balcony of the room above, where the crane must be placed, would probably give way, and Aunt Fanny be precipitated into the area, with or without loss of life, and completely block up the entrance to the coal-cellar. It would be possible, however, though difficult, to entice Aunt Fanny into the music-room, and get Cousin Ella into the little sitting-room. About nightfall this was accomplished, and Bobby paid an outrageous cheque to the foreman.
Dining-room, music-room and sitting-room were now tightly packed. It was perhaps possible for a slim man like Bobby to get access to the keyboard of any of the three gigantic instruments which filled the music-room, but no fire could possibly be lit there, since Aunt Fanny’s thin end projected over the grate, and the idea of holding any little musical party there again was simply laughable. Bobby’s small sitting-room was also quite ruined, for Cousin Ella had crowded out the sofa and the writing-table, while the dining-room was like a well-stocked furniture shop. Bobby ate a miserable dinner under the disapproving eye of his parlour-maid, who looked as if she was going to give notice, and wandered from room to room disconsolately, unable to think of any plan which would render any of them habitable.
The smart rap of the delivery of the nine-o’clock post gave him a slight ray of comfort: there would probably be some pleasant invitations to lunch or dinner…. He went to the door, but found in his letter-box only a long envelope with a type-written address, which looked as if it might be connected with taxes. He opened it, and found it was from Aunt Judy’s lawyer.
“The late Mrs. Fakenham,” he read, “has left you in her will her grand-piano by Hobbner, with a touching and affectionate message, expressing the hope that you will spend many pleasant hours in playing it with kind thoughts of the donor. As there is to be a sale in the house almost immediately, we should esteem it a favour if you would make arrangements for transporting the instrument to your own residence as soon as possible….”
