Living Alone | Page 7

Brown. "Of course. I have been trying to
remember what broomsticks reminded me of. A witch, of course. I
have always wished to be friends with a witch."
The witch was unaware that the proper answer to this was: "Oh, my
Dear, do let's. Do you know I had quite a crush on you from the first
minute." She did not answer at all, and Sarah Brown, who was tired of
proper answers, was not sorry. Nevertheless the pause seemed a little
empty, so she filled it herself, saying pedantically: "Of course I don't
believe friendship is an end in itself. Only a means to an end."
"I don't know what you mean," said the witch, after wrestling
conscientiously with this remark for a minute. "Do tell me--do you
know yourself, or are you just saying it to see what it means?"
Sarah Brown was obviously damped by this, and the witch added
kindly: "I bet you twopence you don't know what this place is."
"A shop," said Sarah Brown, who was sitting on the counter.
"It is a sort of convent and monastery mixed," replied the witch. "I am
connected with it officially. I undertook to manage it, yet I forget what
the proper word for me is. Not undertaker, is it?"
"Superintendent or secretary," suggested Sarah Brown moodily.
"Superintendent, I think," said the witch. "At least I know Peony calls

me Soup. Do you live alone?"
"Yes."
"Then you ought to live here. This is the only place in the world of its
kind. The name of this house is Living Alone. I'll read you the
prospectus."
She fell suddenly upon her knees and began fighting with a drawer. The
drawer was evidently one of the many descendants of the Sword
Excalibur--none but the appointed hand could draw it forth. The witch,
after a struggle, passed this test, and produced a parchment covered
with large childish printing in red ink.
"My employer made up this," said the witch. "And the ferryman wrote
it out for us."
This is the prospectus:
The name of this house is Living Alone.
It is meant to provide for the needs of those who dislike hotels, clubs,
settlements, hostels, boarding-houses, and lodgings only less than their
own homes; who detest landladies, waiters, husbands and wives,
charwomen, and all forms of lookers after. This house is a monastery
and a convent for monks and nuns dedicated to unknown gods. Men
and women who are tired of being laboriously kind to their bodies, who
like to be a little uncomfortable and quite uncared for, who love to live
from week to week without speaking, except to confide their
destinations to 'bus-conductors, who are weary of woolly decorations,
aspidistras, and the eternal two generations of roses which riot among
blue ribbons on hireling wall-papers, who are ignorant of the science of
tipping and thanking, who do not know how to cook yet hate to be
cooked for, will here find the thing they have desired, and something
else as well.
There are six cells in this house, and no common sitting-room. Guests
wishing to address each other must do so on the stairs, or in the shop.

Each cell has whitewashed walls, and contains a small deal table, one
wooden chair, a hard bed, a tin bath, and a little inconvenient fireplace.
No guest may bring into the house more than can be carried out again
in one large suit-case. Carpets, rugs, mirrors, and any single garment
costing more than three guineas, are prohibited. Any guest proved to
have made use of a taxi, or to have travelled anywhere first class, or to
have bought cigarettes or sweets costing more than three shillings a
hundred or eighteenpence a pound respectively, or to have paid more
than three and sixpence (war-tax included) for a seat in any place of
entertainment, will be instantly expelled. Dogs, cats, goldfish, and other
superhuman companions are encouraged.
Working guests are preferred, but if not at work, guests must spend at
least eighteen hours out of the twenty-four entirely alone. No guest may
entertain or be entertained except under special license obtainable from
the Superintendent.
There is a pump in the back yard. There is no telephone, no electric
light, no hot water system, no attendance, and no modern comfort
whatever. Tradesmen are forbidden to call. There is no charge for
residence in this house.
"It certainly sounds an unusual place," admitted Sarah Brown. "Is the
house always full?"
"Never," said the witch. "A lot of people can swallow everything but
the last clause. We have at present one guest, called Peony."
She replaced the prospectus in the drawer, which she then tried to shut.
While she was engaged in this thundering endeavour, Sarah Brown
noticed that the drawer was full of the little