Sadly I have no sketches or other illustrations to go with this story, written by Holland, nor can I accurately date it either. My gut reaction is that this refers to some time in the mid-Thirties, but it could also be the late Forties. The outburst of temper discribed is highly out of character, so Miss Ditcher must have been one of a kind!
The Telephone and Miss Ditcher
“I want you Miss Ditcher, where are you?” Miss Ditcher had her existence in that miniature and dusty Bohemia that used to lie behind Tottenham Court Road and south of Euston Road. How exactly her life first became entangled with mine, I cannot now remember, except that I occupied a studio flat in this region. How the disentangling was achieved eventually I have also forgotten – I suppose it happened naturally enough when eventually I fled the district. Sooner or later everybody fled.
Miss Ditcher ‘did’ for me. There is no more precise word. She didn’t clean, and she certainly didn’t look after me, so she must have ‘done’ for me. Ours was no hard and fast contract, with every minute accounted for and no unpaid overtime. She would arrive vaguely early on Monday morning and would still be shuffling around at five or six o’clock. Left to her own devices she would then say, “Well, I’ll be thinking about going, sir”. Half an hour later she would potter in, “Well, I’ll be making a move, sir”. Sometimes she went shortly after this, but often she still had several cards to play. “Well I’ll be going now”, “I’ll be saying goodnight, sir”, and other curtain speeches. She was paid for two hours’ work each Monday morning.
With the general appearance of an amiable and weak minded witch, Miss Ditcher was far from being the most terrifying of the beldams of the quarter. Nothing like the incredibly named Fanny for instance, an odorous, old bundle of black rags employed only in scrubbing front steps and stone passages. Even the most conscientious wallowers in the lower depths and explorers of human degeneracy shrank from the thought of Fanny being let loose on their tableware or bedding.
Miss Ditcher was a little shrunken woman, with a mild, silly, cheerful, dirty face. She had very few teeth, and the long gaps between these hollowed her face and gave her speech the thickened sibilants employed by music hall knockabouts. Her ragged grey hair hung half down her cheeks and she favoured black but I remember the startling interpolation of wrinkled, flesh coloured stockings. This was Miss Ditcher as I saw her most mornings of the week, when she let herself in and announced “S’only me, sir”. She was probably not much more than 50 years old.
Having acquired this handmaiden, I very soon discovered the limits to her domestic accomplishments. For washing-up, she substituted a lengthy, gas-consuming simmering process that added strange, unlovely, indelible glazes to the crockery. Her washing reduced everything to a stiff, speckled grey. She could dust, sweep and scrub floors – no more. And with the realisation of her limitations, came the further realisation that I couldn’t get rid of her, for she lived on the few shillings I could give her. Nobody else was going to be crazy enough to share her services. Friends came and admired; they said “You’ve got a wonderful character there”, but no requests for her services for free afternoons or mornings were forthcoming. And in the same way that I found I couldn’t sack her, I found it hard to refuse when she said, “If you’re going out this afternoon, sir, do you mind if I sit by your fire until you come back?” I knew where she lived, in a tiny, leaky roofed attic with neither heating nor artificial lighting, at the top of a handsome terrace house nearby.
I felt she might be useful by being in the flat to take telephone messages in my absence. I told her as much – she had never used a telephone in her life and she took the proposal as an elderly bed-ridden aunt might agree that it would be fun if her young nephew taught her sailing. No need to spoil the lad’s enjoyment by disagreeing! To my little demonstration and lecture on the instrument she was an appreciative listener. Finally I forced her to dial TIM and listen to the time signal.
“Can you hear anything?” I asked.
“Yes, I think there’s someone talking.”
“What are they saying?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you THAT, sir”.
Slowly we progressed. There came the day when I could go out, leaving the ‘phone on a window shelf. Miss Ditcher, tensed as a watching cat, crouched by the fire on the opposite side of the room gazing at the instrument as at a box from which Russell’s Viper must presently emerge to strike. But I knew that if the ‘phone rang, Miss Ditcher would no longer dare leave it to ring unanswered, or shout “He’s out!” at the untouched instrument. I knew, but it was worth checking. In the middle of the afternoon, I went into a call box and dialled the number. The ‘phone rang for a long time. I pictured the old thing pacing up and down, wringing her hands and praying that it would suddenly stop, but I hung on. Suddenly a clatter and a loud, despairing scream –
“This is Mr Holland’s flat, this is Mr Holland’s flat, this is Mr Holland’ flat”.
“Yes, yes, I know”, I tried to shout into the barrage, “I know! This IS Mr Holland.”
We both kept on for some time, I found myself getting tense. At length she gave a groan and I slipped in quickly, “Listen, Miss Ditcher, this IS Mr Holland, ME, Mr Holland speaking!” But she was back again, “No, he’s not in, Mr Holland’s not in, he’s not in” – then the click of the receiver and silence. I rang again, but the ‘phone was not lifted. She had told the telephone that was enough for one day.
We had that one out on my return. I still believed that reason and patience could accomplish almost anything. I pointed out, very simply, that people rang me up to ask me to do WORK for them. For the work I received money and with the money I paid Miss Ditcher. How could I continue to pay Miss Ditcher if I had no money – BECAUSE I had done no work – BECAUSE nobody had been able to leave a message while I was out? Easy wasn’t it? I think she saw the point. “If anybody rings for God’s sake, get a name and number so that I can ring them myself,” I told her.
The next time I was out I tried again. Again we wrestled at the tops of our voices, but after a little while, something got through. “Ah,” she said, “that IS you Mr Holland.” She was delighted – she told me all about it on my return.
After my next excursion, she positively fluttered. “Somebody rang for you; it sounded like a young lady”. “Did you get a number?” I asked. She had written it down, there it was – 4375. “What exchange?” I asked, then explained, then entreated – she hadn’t heard anything about the exchange – I had said get the number and she had got it. As a late thought, she said the young lady had said it was important, urgent. 4375 was a collection of numerals that meant nothing at all to me. I prefixed them with every exchange in the London area. I tried saying to myself Elmbridge 4375, Silverthorn 4375, Grangewood 4375; not a bell range anywhere for me. At intervals Miss Ditcher sidled up – she was genuinely distressed at the situation, even if its subtleties were beyond her. “She’s sure to ring up again if it isn’t too late” was one of her comforts. At such moments I surprised myself. I never thought I could be so abusive to a poor old woman.
I never found out about that call. I tried the number on a few of the larger, more central exchanges. I spoke to quantity surveyor’s clerks, outside inspectorates for brewing machinery suppliers, wholesale edible oil importers and several apparently elderly ladies of leisure, but I didn’t get a clue. I never again pinned much hope to Miss Ditcher. The role was too big for her and I was also slightly sorry for some of the things I had called her. For her part, she didn’t give up altogether. Often on my return from an hour or two’s absence she would tell me that the ‘phone had rung three times – a wrong number each time, or somebody had rung up but wouldn’t give name or number. I always thanked her and she always pointed out how much she appreciated being able to sit in front of my fire and help me at the same time in my business.
Only once again did our relations threaten to become tense. That was the evening she told me that a man had kept ringing up – he said he was going away, had to speak to me that evening. He wanted me to ring him back – a Mr Brown it was. “Did you get his number?” I asked. “Yes,” said Miss Ditcher, “He spoke rather loud but I think I got it right.” She produced and unfolded a grubby corner of paper. On it was written in pencil stub BEERBAREL 2679.