THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, we were scheduled to take a train to the countryside again to be entertained by the citizenry. This time it was Dampton, Bucks, to spend the afternoon with the Bilkingtons, friends of the Foyles. The houses in Dampton were larger than those in Cramley where Rose Emily lived, although constructed, like Rose Emily’s, of orange brick and set on narrow lots, each house the same distance from the street. The Bilkingtons had three children: a girl, Stephanie, who was Mark’s age, and two little boys, Rodney and William.
Mrs. Bilkington met us at the door; she was attired in smart tweeds. I had used my head for once and was wearing what in Chicago we always referred to as “a fall suit.”
“I see you know what to wear,” Mrs. Bilkington said approvingly.
The house was much bigger than poor Rose Emily’s. We stepped into a spacious entrance hall, decorated with a large framed photograph of the Queen in voluminous blue robes, walking somewhat in advance of the Duke of Edinburgh, similarly robed. She was glancing at him over her shoulder, evidently saying something and looking rather annoyed.
“We took that photograph last month,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “You can see we were very close to her.” The Bilkingtons drove us about the area, showing us William Penn’s tomb, which we were surprised to find was in England, and people playing cricket.
“It’s a boring game,” Mr. Bilkington said sadly. “They just stand around in those white clothes and then change positions every time someone hits the ball. There’s really nothing to see.”
After that we all went back to the house for tea: little sandwiches and tea with milk, and then little cakes and tea with milk. I had discovered to my disappointment that taking tea at four or five o’clock, a custom that I had always admired as particularly civilized when I read about it or saw it in English movies, made me feel odd and spoiled my appetite for dinner at eight, or even ten, or in fact at any hour. The Bilkingtons poured a lot of sugar in their tea and spread jam on everything. I had a considerable sweet tooth myself, and had noted with approval the many appealing candy bar commercials on television in the late evening, and the fact that candy and cakes were sold in the legitimate theaters.
On our previous trip to England as tourists, we sat at the theater in front of a couple who ordered pastry during the intermission, or interval. This couple, a man and woman in their middle fifties, shared their plate of cakes with a rapture that we found charming. “Oh ooh,” the lady cried, “oh, halve this one, it’s too good!” “Oh yes,” her companion cried, “but do halve this one—look, it’s full of cream!” “Oh, it’s so terribly good,” she responded, “oh, do halve this one, mind the chocolate.” “Ooh, mm,” he said.
We were entranced with this little episode, and afterward told each other and anyone else who would listen, that it demonstrated the impressive ability of the English to derive enjoyment from the simplest things in life: English men, in particular, since we could not imagine an American male gasping and cooing over a plate of cakes. ‘They enjoy things,” we said. “They know how to draw the last drop of pleasure from their experiences.”
I thought of this as we shared tea with the Bilkington family. Stephanie Bilkington was fifteen, Mark’s age. She was a shy, slender, very pretty child in a severe suit and heavy brown oxfords. Her hair was parted on the side; she wore it the way Princess Elizabeth had worn her hair at the age of ten, and tried unsuccessfully to hide behind it.
“Oh, Mummy,” she said, “today the Geography Mistress was talking about the yacht Brittania. One of the girls said it was expensive to run it just to take the Queen to Scotland. The mistress said it wasn’t such a great expense; after all, it is the Queen.”
Mrs. Bilkington set her cup down with a majestic gesture and turned partway in her chair to face Stephanie, who tried to shrink back behind her hair.
“What your mistress should have told you,” Mrs. Bilkington said, addressing us all, “what your Geography Mistress should have told you, Stephanie, is that the Brittania is a hospital ship. It must be maintained in any case because it is a hospital ship, vital in time of war. The Queen’s taking it to Scotland is incidental; it costs nothing extra.”
“Oh, Mummy,” Stephanie said faintly, “I wish I’d known.”
“You should have known,” Mrs. Bilkington said kindly, “but you may tell your little friend.”
“Oh, thank you, Mummy,” Stephanie said.
“I have a friend,” Mrs. Bilkington said to us, “who travelled with the Queen and the Duke at one time on their ship. She travelled with them on the same ship. She told me that Philip likes to call her Betty.” She paused. “Yes,” she said,” he calls her Betty. I know it’s true because I happened to be sitting quite near them at a polo match and I heard him call her Betty. I think he said, ‘Oh, Betty, hand me my sweater,’ or something like that.”
“Oh, Mummy,” Stephanie said.
Rodney and William sat side by side in little gray wool shorts with matching jackets. Rodney was nine, only a year younger than Bruce, but about half his size. He had enormous frightened eyes in a thin face; his little legs stuck out of his shorts like matchsticks. William, six, was also rather under-sized, but he had a rosy complexion and seemed fairly outgoing. “It’s time for Stingray,” he said.
“Oh, Stingray,” Mr. Bilkington said. He had been quietly dozing on a fat red sofa that matched the two fat red armchairs. “Oh, I never miss Stingray.” He looked at his wife. “I suppose it’s all right if I just watch it,” he said.
“Yes, go along,” she said indulgently. “Rodney,” Rodney shot up, a look of terror on his face. “Just take your guests into the playroom,” his mother told him. He herded Eric and Bruce off with him and Mr. Bilkington and William.
“I don’t like it,” Stephanie said. “It’s all fighting, you know. For boys.”
“I don’t know what to do about Rodney,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “He seems rather unsure of himself.”
“He seems shy,” Jordan said.
“Well, he is rather shy. So we are going to try sending him off to boarding school in the autumn. Perhaps that will bring him out of himself.”
“Oh, Rodney’s awful,” Stephanie said, giggling and looking at Mark from behind her hair. “He teases me.”
“I’ve spoken to the doctor about it,” Mrs. Bilkington went on, “but there doesn’t seem to be a detectable reason for his hesitant attitude.”
“Oh, Doctor Killman,” Stephanie said shyly.
“Stephanie loves Doctor Killman,” Mrs. Bilkington explained. “He’s our doctor.”
“We could use a good doctor,” Jordan said, obviously thinking of Dr. Bott. “We don’t have one at the moment.”
“Oh, Doctor Killman is excellent,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “We have used him for years, he couldn’t be better. Of course,” she added, “he’s Jewish.” She paused a moment to let that sink in. “Now I realize,” she went on, “that many people will not use a Jewish doctor because they feel he will refer them to other Jewish doctors if they need special treatment or anything of that kind. We were hesitant ourselves about it. But I may say with confidence that Doctor Killman will not recommend another doctor unless it’s necessary and not unless he is a good one, Jewish or otherwise.”
“That’s good,” Jordan said.
“Yes, many people hesitate to use Jewish doctors,” Mrs. Bilkington said.
“I love Doctor Killman,” Stephanie remarked.
“I’ll give you his name,” Mrs. Bilkington said to Jordan. “You can feel absolutely confident about him.”
“I wish you could come up with something for the children to do every day,” I said, whining as usual. “We have an awful time, especially in bad weather.”
“Children love Madame Tussaud’s,” she said. “Have you taken them there?”
“Well, actually,” I said, “Eric was frightened to death by it. He was frightened of the Hamlet diorama, and he was terrified of the Queen Mother.”
“The Queen Mum!”
“Yes, it’s weird, isn’t it? The thing’s got a funny look in its eyes.”
“Frightened of the Queen Mum!” Mrs. Bilkington couldn’t get over it. “That’s really amusing, you know, and the Queen Mum would be the first to laugh at it, because she has an absolutely marvelous sense of humor. And she has a twinkle in her eye. I suppose they tried to catch that in the wax figure….”
“It sort of leers,” I said.
“Yes, they tried to catch that twinkle. Everyone knows, you see, that the Queen Mum has a twinkle in her eye. She’s known for it. She goes about everywhere, you see, and everyone loves to see her, because she cheers them up. She’s such a happy person. And she would laugh at Eric, you know, because she’s the first to get a joke. Everyone always says that. Actually, I’ve seen her, and she really is a very jolly person. She really does have a twinkle in her eye.” Mrs. Bilkington laughed reminiscently. “The Queen Mum,” she said, subsiding.
I didn’t have to look at Jordan, who sat beside me in a wing chair; I could tell from his gentle breathing that he was asleep.
“Speaking of the Royal Family,” Mrs. Bilkington said.
“I and my husband,” Stephanie remarked, laughing. Mark looked at her.
“Yes,” Mrs. Bilkington said, “she always used to say, ‘I and my husband’ and of course her voice is rather high. Now she’s changed it a little to avoid being laughed at. She says, ‘My husband and I.’”
“I and my husband,” Stephanie said, in a high voice.
“Now she says, ‘My husband and I.’ She tries to vary it,” Mrs. Bilkington explained. “Speaking of the Royal Family, I must just show you the rest of the photographs I took last month. I was standing quite close to everything, I had a wonderful place, really. I wrote away for it a year ago.”
She rose and went to rummage in a drawer.
“What do you think of the Beatles?” Mark asked Stephanie, tensely.
“Oh, I really prefer Bing Crosby,” Stephanie replied. “Don’t you?”
“Here they are,” Mrs. Bilkington said. “Now here’s the first. His name probably won’t mean anything to you, but this man is the Queen’s Secretary. I caught him standing in this window, he was right above us. I just happened to look up.”
“My goodness,” I said loudly, clearing my throat. “Look at this.” I handed the photograph to Jordan, poking him with my elbow to wake him up. Mrs. Bilkington had taken quite a lot of photographs. I looked at them and passed them to Jordan who looked at them and passed them on to Mark.
“Ha ha,” Mark said. “The Queen looks funny in this blue bathrobe.”
My heart missed a beat. There was a frozen silence before Mrs. Bilkington spoke calmly. “Those are official robes actually,” she said. “It’s traditional to wear them.”
The boys and Mr. Bilkington came back from viewing Stingray.
“It was awfully good this time,” Mr. Bilkington said. “They were trapped on a forbidden planet.”
Eventually we thanked the Bilkingtons for their hospitality, and straggled back to the station. We explained to Mark at some length that he shouldn’t have laughed at the Queen. After a while the train came, and we boarded, stuffed with sweets, tired and very crabby. We arrived at Marylebone Station in a sullen silence and emerged into the eerie stillness of the Sunday London streets. We couldn’t even think of dinner until well after ten o’clock.