The Aunt And Amabel

When Amabel is confined to the spare bedroom after an unfortunate incident with her aunt's chrysanthemums, it is only the people she meets in the wardrobe who can understand her. Another witty and charming story from E Nesbit, author of The Railway Children.

Transcript

Hello there,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks so much for joining me tonight for the reading of The Aunt and Amabelle by E.

Nesbitt.

As you might know,

E.

Nesbitt's first name was Edith and she's held in very high esteem still here in the UK.

She lived for 20-odd years in southeast London where there's an Edith Nesbitt park and also an Edith Nesbitt walk and cycleway.

But anyway,

Before I start reading,

Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable and settle down into whatever surface you're sitting or perhaps lying on.

Okay,

Then I'll begin.

The Aunt and Amabelle.

It is not pleasant to be a fish out of water.

To be a cat in water is not what anyone would desire.

To be in a temper is uncomfortable.

And no one can fully taste the joys of life if he is in a little Lord Fauntleroy suit.

But by far the most uncomfortable thing to be is in disgrace,

Sometimes amusingly called coventry by the people who are not in it.

We have all been there.

It is a place where the heart sinks and aches,

Where familiar faces are clouded and changed,

Where any remark that one may tremblingly make is received with stony silence or with the assurance that nobody wants to talk to such a naughty child.

If you are only in disgrace and not in solitary confinement,

You will creep about a house that is like the one you've had such jolly times in and yet as unlike it as a bad dream is to a June morning.

You will long to speak to people and be afraid to speak.

You will wonder whether there is anything you can do that will change things at all.

You've said you are sorry and that has changed nothing.

You will wonder whether you are to stay forever in this desolate place outside all hope and love and fun and happiness.

And though it has happened before and has always in the end come to an end,

You can never be quite sure that this time it is not going to last forever.

It is going to last forever,

Said Amabelle,

Who was eight.

What shall I do?

Oh,

Whatever shall I do?

What she had done ought to have formed the subject of her meditations.

And she had done what had seemed to her all the time and in fact still seemed a self-sacrificing and noble act.

She was staying with an aunt,

Measles or a new baby or the painters in the house,

I forget which,

The cause of her banishment.

And the aunt,

Who was really a great aunt and quite old enough to know better,

Had been grumbling about her head gardener to a lady who called in blue spectacles and a beady bonnet with violet flowers in it.

He hardly lets me have a plant for the table,

Said the aunt,

And that border in front of the breakfast room window,

It's just bare earth and I expressly ordered chrysanthemums to be planted there.

He thinks of nothing but his greenhouse.

The beady violet blue glass lady snorted and said she didn't know what we were coming to and she would have just half a cup,

Please,

With not quite so much milk,

Thank you very much.

Now what would you have done?

Minded your own business,

Most likely,

And not got into trouble at all.

Not so,

Annabel.

Enthusiastically anxious to do something which would make the great aunt see what a thoughtful,

Unselfish little girl she really was,

The aunt's opinion of her being at present quite otherwise,

She got up very early in the morning.

She took the cutting out scissors from the workroom table drawer and stole,

Like an errand of mercy,

She told herself,

To the greenhouse where she busily snipped off every single flower she could find.

Macfarlane was at his breakfast.

Then,

With the points of the cutting out scissors,

She made nice deep little holes in the flower bed where the chrysanthemums ought to have been and stuck the flowers in.

Chrysanthemums,

Geraniums,

Primulas,

Orchids and carnations.

It would be a lovely surprise for auntie.

Then the aunt came down to breakfast and saw the lovely surprise.

Annabel's world turned upside down and inside out,

Suddenly and surprisingly,

And there she was in Coventry,

And not even the housemaid would speak to her.

Her great uncle,

Who she passed in the hall on her way to her own room,

Did indeed,

As he smoothed his hat,

Murmur,

Sent to Coventry,

Eh?

Never mind,

It'll soon be over,

And went off to the city,

Banging the front door behind him.

He meant well,

But he did not understand.

Annabel understood,

Or thought she did,

And knew in her miserable heart that she was sent to Coventry for the last time and that this time she would stay there.

I don't care,

She said,

Quite untruly.

I'll never try to be kind to anyone again,

And that wasn't true either.

She was to spend the whole day alone in the best bedroom,

The one with the four post bed and the red curtains and the large wardrobe,

With a looking glass in it that you could see yourself in,

To the very ends of your strapped shoes.

The first thing Annabel did was to look at herself in the glass.

She was still sniffing and sobbing,

And her eyes were swimming in tears.

Another one rolled down her nose as she looked.

That was very interesting.

Another rolled down,

And that was the last,

Because as soon as you get interested in watching your tears,

They stop.

Next she looked out of the window and saw the decorated flower bed just as she'd left it,

Very bright and beautiful.

Well,

It does look nice,

She said,

I don't care what they say.

Then she looked around the room for something to read.

There was nothing.

The old-fashioned best bedrooms never did have anything.

Only on the large dressing table,

On the left-hand side of the oval swing glass,

Was one book covered in red velvet,

And on it,

Very twisterly embroidered in yellow silk,

And mixed up with misleading leaves and squiggles,

Were the letters A,

B,

C.

Perhaps it's a picture alphabet,

Said Annabelle,

And was quite pleased,

Though of course she was much too old to care for alphabets.

Only,

When one is very unhappy and very dull,

Alphabets are better than nothing.

She opened the book.

Why,

It's only a timetable,

She said.

I suppose it's for people when they want to go away,

And Aunty puts it here in case they suddenly make up their minds to go and feel they can't wait another minute.

I feel like that.

Only it's no good,

And I expect other people do too.

She had learned how to use the dictionary,

And this seemed to go the same way.

She looked up the names of all the places she knew.

Brighton was where she had once spent a month,

Rugby,

Where her brother was at school,

And Home,

Which was Amberley,

And she saw the times when the trains left for these places,

And wished she could go by those trains.

And once more,

She looked round the best bedroom,

Which was her prison,

And thought of the Bastille,

And wished she had a toad to tame,

Like the poor Viscount,

Or a flower to watch growing,

Like Picciola,

And she was very sorry for herself,

And very angry with her aunt,

And very grieved at the conduct of her parents.

She had expected better things from them,

And now they had left her in this dreadful place,

Where no one loved her,

And no one understood her.

There seemed to be no place for toads or flowers in the best room.

It was carpeted all over,

Even in its least noticeable corners.

It had everything a best room ought to have,

And everything was of dark shining mahogany.

The toilet table had a set of red and gold glass things,

A tray,

Candlesticks,

A ring stand,

Many little pots with lids,

And two bottles with stoppers.

When the stoppers were taken out,

They smelt very strange,

Something like very old scent,

And something like cold cream,

Also very old,

And something like going to the dentist.

I do not know whether the scent of those bottles had anything to do with what happened.

It certainly was a very extraordinary scent,

Quite different from any perfume that I smell nowadays,

But I remember that when I was a little girl,

I smelt it quite often.

But then,

There are no best rooms now,

Such as they used to be.

The best rooms now are gay with chintz and mirrors,

And there are always flowers and books and little tables to put your teacup on,

And sofas and armchairs,

And they smell of varnish and new furniture.

When Annabelle had sniffed at both bottles and looked in all the pots,

Which were quite clean and empty,

Except for a pearl button and two pins in one of them,

She took up the ABC again to look for Whitby,

Where her godmother lived.

And it was then that she saw the extraordinary name,

Where You Want to Go To.

This was odd,

But the name of the station from which it started was still more extraordinary,

For it was not Euston or Cannon Street or Marylebone.

The name of the station was Big Wardrobe in Spare Room,

And below this name,

Really quite unusual for a station,

Annabelle read in small letters,

Single Fares Strictly Forbidden,

Return Tickets No Class Nuppence,

Trains Leave Big Wardrobe in Spare Room All The Time.

And under that,

In still smaller letters,

You Had Better Go Now.

What would you have done?

Rubbed your eyes and thought you were dreaming?

Well,

If you had,

Nothing more would have happened.

Nothing ever does when you behave like that.

Annabelle was wiser.

She went straight to the Big Wardrobe and turned its glass handle.

I expect it's only shelves and people's best hats,

She said,

But she only said it.

People often say what they don't mean,

So that if things turn out as they don't expect,

They can say,

I told you so.

But this is most dishonest to oneself,

And being dishonest to oneself is almost worse than being dishonest to other people.

Annabelle would never have done it if she had been herself,

But she was out of herself with anger and unhappiness.

Of course,

It wasn't hats.

It was,

Most amazingly,

A crystal cave,

Very oddly shaped like a railway station.

It seemed to be lighted by stars,

Which is,

Of course,

Unusual in a booking office.

And over the station clock was a full moon.

The clock had no figures,

Only NOW in shining letters all round it 12 times,

And the NOWs touched,

So the clock was bound to be always right.

How different from the clock you go to school by!

A porter in white satin hurried forward to take Annabelle's luggage.

Her luggage was the ABC,

Which she still held in her hand.

Lots of time miss,

He said,

Grinning in a most friendly way.

I am glad you're going.

You will enjoy yourself.

What a nice little girl you are.

This was cheering.

Annabelle smiled.

At the pigeonhole that tickets come out of,

Another person,

Also in white satin,

Was ready with a Mother of Pearl ticket,

Round like a card counter.

Here you are miss,

He said,

With the kindest smile.

Price nothing,

And refreshments free all the way.

It's a pleasure,

He added,

To issue a ticket to a nice little lady like you.

The train was entirely of crystal too,

And the cushions were of white satin.

There were little buttons,

Such as you have for electric bells,

And on them what you want to eat,

What you want to drink,

What you want to read in silver letters.

Annabelle pressed all the buttons at once,

And instantly felt obliged to blink.

The blink over,

She saw on the cushion by her side,

A silver tray with vanilla ice,

Boiled chicken and white sauce,

Almonds blanched,

Peppermint creams and mashed potatoes,

And a long glass of lemonade.

Beside the tray was a book.

It was Mrs Ewing's Bad-Tempered Family,

And it was bound in white vellum.

There is nothing more luxurious than eating while you read,

Unless it be reading while you eat.

Annabelle did both.

They are not the same thing,

As you will see if you think the matter over.

And just as the last thrill of the last spoonful of ice died away,

And the last full stop of the Bad-Tempered Family met Annabelle's eye,

The train stopped,

And hundreds of railway officials in white velvet shouted,

Where you want to go to?

Get out!

A velvety porter,

Who was somehow like a silkworm,

As well as like a wedding handkerchief,

Opened the door.

Now he said,

Come on out Miss Annabelle,

Unless you want to go to where you don't want to go to.

She hurried out onto an ivory platform.

Not on the ivory,

If you please,

Said the porter,

The white taxminster carpet,

It's laid down expressly for you.

Annabelle walked along it and saw ahead of her a crowd,

Also all in white.

What's all that?

She asked the friendly porter.

It's the mayor,

Dear Miss Annabelle,

He said,

With your address.

My address is the old cottage Amberley,

She said,

At least it used to be,

And she found herself face to face with the mayor.

He was very like Uncle George,

But he bowed low to her,

Which was not Uncle George's habit,

And he said,

Welcome dear little Annabelle,

Please accept this admiring address from the mayor,

And burgesses,

And apprentices,

And all the rest of it,

Of where you want to go to.

The address was in silver letters on white silk,

And it said,

Welcome dear Annabelle,

We know you meant to please your aunt.

It was very clever of you to think of putting the greenhouse flowers in the bare flower bed.

You couldn't be expected to know that you ought to ask leave before you touch other people's things.

Oh but,

Said Annabelle,

Quite confused,

I did,

But the band struck up and drowned her words.

The instruments of the band were all of silver,

And the bandsman's clothes of white leather.

The tune they played was Cheerio.

Then Annabelle found that she was taking part in a procession,

Hand in hand with the mayor,

And the band playing like mad all the time.

The mayor was dressed entirely in cloth of silver,

And as they went along,

He kept saying close to her ear,

You have our sympathy,

You have our sympathy,

Till she felt quite giddy.

There was a flower show,

All the flowers were white.

There was a concert,

All the tunes were old ones.

There was a play called Put Yourself in Her Place,

And there was a banquet with Annabelle in the place of honour.

They drank her health in white wine way,

And then through the crystal hall of a thousand gleaming pillars,

Where thousands of guests all in white were met to do honour to Annabelle,

The shout went up,

Speech,

Speech.

I cannot explain to you what had been going on in Annabelle's mind.

Perhaps you know.

Whatever it was,

It began like a very tiny butterfly in a box that couldn't keep quiet,

But fluttered,

And fluttered,

And fluttered.

And when the mayor rose and said,

Dear Annabelle,

You whom we all love and understand,

Dear Annabelle,

You who were so unjustly punished for trying to give pleasure to an unresponsive aunt,

Poor,

Ill-used,

Ill-treated,

Innocent Annabelle,

Blameless,

Suffering Annabelle,

We await your words.

That fluttering,

Tiresome,

Butterfly thing inside her seemed suddenly to swell to the size and strength of a fluttering albatross,

And Annabelle got up from her seat of honour on the throne of ivory and silver and pearl,

And said,

Choking a little and extremely red about the ears,

Ladies and gentlemen,

I don't want to make a speech,

I just want to say thank you,

And to say,

To say,

She stopped and all the white crowd cheered.

To say,

She went on as the cheers died down,

That I wasn't blameless and innocent and all those nice things.

I ought to have thought,

And they were auntie's flowers,

But I did want to please her.

It's all so mixed.

Oh,

I wish auntie was here.

And instantly auntie was there,

Very tall and quite nice looking,

In a white velvet dress and an ermine cloak.

Speech,

Cried the crowd,

Speech from auntie.

Auntie stood on the step of the throne beside Annabelle and said,

I think perhaps that I was hasty,

And I think Annabelle meant to please me,

But all the flowers that were meant for the winter,

Well,

I was annoyed.

I'm sorry.

Oh,

Auntie,

So am I,

So am I,

Cried Annabelle,

And the two began to hug each other on the ivory step,

While the crowd cheered like mad,

And the band struck up that well-known air.

If you only understood.

Oh,

Auntie,

Said Annabelle,

Among hugs,

This is such a lovely place.

Come and see everything.

We may,

Mayn't we?

She asked the mayor.

The place is yours,

He said,

And now you can see many things that you couldn't see before.

We are the people who understand,

And now you are one of us,

And your aunt is another.

I mustn't tell you all they saw,

Because these things are secrets only known to the people who understand.

Perhaps you don't yet belong to that happy nation,

And if you do,

You will know without my telling you.

And when it grew late,

And the stars were drawn down somehow to hang among the trees,

Annabelle fell asleep in her aunt's arms,

Beside a white foaming fountain on a marble terrace,

Where white peacocks came to drink.

She woke on the big bed in the spare room,

But her aunt's arms were still around her.

Annabelle,

She was saying,

Annabelle.

Oh,

Auntie,

Said Annabelle,

Sleepily,

I am so sorry.

It was stupid of me,

And I did mean to please you.

It was stupid of you,

Said the aunt,

But I am sure you meant to please me.

Come down to supper.

And Annabelle has a confused recollection of her aunt saying that she was sorry,

Adding,

Poor little Annabelle.

If the aunt really did say it,

It was fine of her,

And Annabelle is quite sure that she did say it.

Annabelle and her great aunt are now the best of friends,

But neither of them has ever spoken to the other of the beautiful city called where you want to go to.

Annabelle is too shy to be the first to mention it,

And no doubt the aunt has her own reasons for not broaching the subject.

But of course,

They both know that they have been there together,

And it's easy to get on with people when you and they alike belong to the people who understand.

By the way,

If you look in the ABC that your people have,

You will not find where you want to go to.

It is only in the red velvet bound copy that Annabelle found in her aunt's best bedroom.

Reviews

Thank you for introducing me to this lovely story from a writer who truly understands the emotional life of children! If only my husband and I could take a trip to the place where people understand… 😆

A lovely story wonderfully read by a great storyteller. Thank you Mandy x💜

Oh she is such a great author! And you are such a great reader!💕🙏🏽