Tails of
Phoebe and Mags Worthington
Of
“The Mews”, Belgravia
Two Darn Cats Invented by William Cross, FSA Scot
Daniel, The
Telegram Messenger Boy :
“The Mews”,
From the
life and times of Phoebe and Mags
“Madam, Daniel is at the door with an urgent dispatch for you.”
“Find him a shilling, Cook dear, he is always so thin and wasted,” replied Madam.
Although Cook’s name was “Olga” her mistress Dame Katrina Ogilvy dared not use this name in case enemy aliens sussed out her true identity.
Dame Katrina’s ample hindquarters rose from the fur-lined settee like a buffalo that had just finished grazing on the American prairies. She uttered a long, deep, penetrating sigh. Madam’s ritual at weekends in the period before luncheon was to relax in the splendour of the morning room.
She had been reading but had dozed off in front of the open iron grate beside a blazing coal fire: she and the embers in the grate glowing red and humming arias from Verdi.
The script composition
the great soprano was browsing was Il Trovatore for a concert being planned by
her great friend, a Venetian expatriate, Alexander Biagi. The event was to mark
an anniversary of the piece first being performed at the Tor di Nona in
As Dame Katrina rose, the loose copy of the finest Italian libretto by Francesco Maria Piave, Verdi’s life-long friend and collaborator, came flying off her lap. The pages glided like paper aeroplanes across the room in several directions, accelerated by a measurable gust of wind created as Katrina got up in haste on hearing the news of a telegram.
Cook’s head and shoulders appeared from the hallway, poking through the door as if there was no actual body attached to them.
“Very well Madam. I may even be able to find him some pirozhky; I have made an enormous tray of them this morning to be consumed later for our tea and supper. I’ll see to Daniel. It will give you time to compose a reply if I feed the boy.”
Cook thought to herself .… “He is looking so dreadfully
undernourished again, just so much like I witnessed the peasants in the borders
of the
“Oh Cook, Cook, your own wonderful pirozhky. I thought I could smell the magical aroma of apples and honey cooking together. Pirozhky: a marriage of tastes made in heaven. Just like my beloved Verdi and Piave.”
Daniel doffed his cap on seeing Madam arrive in the hallway. He
followed this with a sort of mime of the word “Mam.” This was delivered as
politely as the good public servant that he always was could muster, on duty or
not. Daniel was tall, thin, and although pale he was handsome, with browny
blond hair. His voice had an element of the local accent, more Pimlico than
“Good Morning, Mam.” And he bowed as if they were going to dance a Viennese waltz .
Madam acknowledged the boy’s courtesies and sincerity.
“Well, well, Daniel, Hallelujah! I trust you bring us all glad tidings of great joy, this day and for ever more.”
Daniel had no idea that Madam was attempting a little joke. But once again he responded politely. He was used to Madam teasing him; she had once asked him to sing a musical note as he delivered his telegram in the hallway at “The Mews”. Madam had then commented:
“Well, well! A singing telegram boy! You have a brave voice, young man, you are definitely musical.”
Madam had not finished her interrogations:
“Let me see your hands” she asked, like a request from a nurse.
Daniel did as he was told.
“You do not have the hands of a postal clerk, you must study, boy .… I shall see to it.”
To Madam’s pleasant surprise Daniel revealed that he had learned to read music when he was aged 7, and he could play the violin and the piano.
“You should be trained, dear boy, or the gift will leave you, or you will be at best mediocre.”
Daniel thought it unlikely he’d ever want to leave the Post Office and take up singing for a living. He was earning 25/- a week and Mr Raymond his supervisor said he could earn extras from tips.
“The sky is the limit for anyone who reaches the hallowed rank of being the area postmaster,” he told Daniel, as if to inspire him to reach that position.
Cook could see that Madam was beginning to hog Daniel’s attention. She pounced on the telegram boy and ushered him into her kitchen lair but he knew the way. He delivered upwards of two or three telegrams a week to the “The Big Lady Who Sings”.
“You know, Cook, you spoil that boy” said Dame Katrina. “Last week I swear I saw you sewing on one of his buttons on his jacket and mending a rip in his coat.” Madam was half grinning as she uttered these words.
Cook grinned back, but stood her ground.
“Well, they must be smart at all times, wearing as they do the uniform of the Tsar; they are under an obligation to conduct themselves in a manner which shall never bring that uniform into disrepute.”
“The King, you mean the King, Cook. Do be careful, my dear.”
“But, besides that, Madam, Daniel has such a gentle smile. Boys
of his age are always losing buttons from their garments, catching their coats
on loose nails on doors and gates and of course they are ALWAYS ravenously
hungry.”
ENQUIRIES
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