The Doings of David and Peter

I - Absent Friends

It was David who invented the Bugger Family, though a chance word from Peter set the story going. Peter, a fat urchin of two, was discovering for himself the fascination of words, and any new one had an irresistible attraction. Over and over he would chant it, with variations to suit his taste, and if one of his inventions raised a laugh from his elder brother, his pleasure was ludicrous. 

So it came about one day that as David was shouting for his own amusement the names of his neighbours, "“Mis-sis Brown, Mis-sis Bell, Mis-ter Bell", Peter, playing on the floor, looked up and chirped: “an’ Mis-ter Bugger". 

It was a brilliant suggestion. The name caught David's fancy, and together they shouted in chorus: "Mister Bugger, Mis-sis Bugger, Miss Bugger.” Funnily enough, only the last seemed worthy to be retained, and was shouted in shrill unison till I appeared with the time-honoured rebuke: "Boys! Not such a noise."

It was bath-time some days later when, out of David's cheerful chattering's emerged Miss Bugger again, endowed with a personality. As he manoeuvred his toy boats through the waves, he flung at me, with complete irrelevance: 

“Miss Bugger says she's coming to tea ‘nother day." 

“How do you know?" I asked, carefully keeping any surprise out of my voice.

"She said so on the telephone,” he answered carelessly. 

I asked no more, but the temptation to point a moral was too great, and I hinted that if Miss Bugger was coming, there must not be any scenes like those that had disgraced the tea-table that day. He replied with a comment on his boats, but the hint sank in, for the: next idea to take tangible form was, “Miss Bugger doesn't like screamy boys.“ 

Both boys seemed agreed on this, even Peter stopping, with spoon suspended, to tell me: “Miss Bugger doesn't like screamy boys ‘tall. Only likes good boys." 

David concurred, but added the startling fact: “She's got two boys." 

I refrained from comment and waited for further information, but it was not forthcoming. It was not till some days later that I was plunged, without warning, into the history of the Bugger Family. I had drawn a hammock chair into the garden for a brief rest with a book, while the boys squirmed on a rug at my feet, when I heard a confident voice begin: 

"Miss Bugger  -  “ I pricked up my ears. “Miss Bugger," went on the story-teller, “has a boy and a girl. She doesn't have another boy at all." (This to Peter's address. He was being altogether too possessive over a pet engine.) “The other Miss Bugger hasn't got another boy too.” 

This was interesting, and I put down my book "Is there another Miss Bugger?" I asked, this being the first I had heard of the lady.

David nodded. He was quite clear on that point, and went on to more interesting details. One lady, I gathered, was the mother of a boy and a girl. She lived a long way off, so we went to see her on the bus.

 "Peter," he added, “often goes to see her."

 “Alone?" I queried, Peter, to my knowledge, being still at the pram stage. 

"I take him," came the reply, with all the responsibility of three-and-a-half. He sat for a moment considering this visit, and then seemed to see the necessity for a return of hospitality. “Miss Bugger," he went on, "likes to come to tea with David and Peter. She brings the little boy and the little girl. They don't shout at each other, 'cos she doesn't like screamy boys. ‘They always say please at tea-time."

"That must be nice for her," I sighed, enviously, conscious of the endless struggles to ensure decent behaviour at meals, with a hilarious occupant of a high-chair on either hand. But David continued his train of thought: 

“Nother Miss Bugger doesn't have a little boy. She says she'll have one another time." 

"That's wise of her,” said I, glad to hear that one, at least, of the sisters had some respect for the conventions. 

"Her mother's going to bring her one," he added, a little doubtfully, some dim memory hovering in his mind of my explanation that the time he stayed alone with Granny was when I went to fetch Peter, 

A nearby cough made me start. The hammock-chairs in the next-door garden were very near, and David's voice is high. childless neighbours are easily shocked, and, in any case, this was not for other ears. With an irrelevance worthy of David, I gazed at the sun and remarked: 

“I should think it is a warm enough day for bathing costumes." 

“And water?” came the breathless response, and imaginary things were forgotten in the joy of unlimited mess.

After this, the two Miss Buggers took their and place among our friends, and seemed to develop a mania for ringing us up on David's private telephone -- a machine which he answers in a cruel caricature of my voice, and on which he constantly issues gruff orders to butchers and grocers. On one such occasion he issued from the kitchen, proudly adorned with a strip of cucumber skin. 

“This,” he announced, as he balanced it precariously on his forehead, “is my funny thing for wearing when Miss Bugger comes to tea." 

“Why?” I asked, naturally enough, though, heaven knows, I should have learnt the uselessness of a direct question. David, of course, ignored it. 

"Miss Bugger would not like to see the mess that Peter made on the floor with the sugar,” he went on. "She would like to see me Clearing it up.” 

“I'm sure she would," I approved. It had been a note worthy piece of helpfulness, and the glow of virtue still persisted. “But why must you wear that when Miss Bugger comes?” 

“For clearing up a mess,” he replied obscurely. Seeing that I still looked puzzled, he added helpfully, "It might get wet," and ran off. This was beyond me Perhaps Miss Bugger who, I felt, was wiser than I, would understand the significance of it. 

But though my questions so often landed me in a dead end, I could not repress my curiosity about this family which seemed so real to the two boys. When, therefore, they arrived on a train of stools, fresh from a visit, tentatively probed for more.

“We've been seeing Miss Bugger,”  they announced. 

“And what did she say?”

"My motor," replied David, to whom machines are everything, “said *Honk Honk!" 

"And did she say 'Honk-Honk’' too?" I enquired facetiously.

 He looked at me sternly. "Miss Bugger,” he rebuked, “hasn't got a motor. She's only got buses. The buses - - her house ~ - - " He gave it up and waved a hand vaguely, and I saw a busy high-road, and set back a little from it a prim, old-fashioned house, curiously reserved in the midst of the bustle, as so often these old houses are. For a moment it seemed real to me too, and I asked gently: 

"Can I come and see her too?" It was a false move. With one part of his brain, David knew that was impossible, but another part refused to face the fact. He worried a moment, and then looked up, smiling.

“She's gone on a holiday. Peter's going to see her when she comes back. I’ll take you another day.”

I thanked him graciously, though I knew that I had no place in this dream world. 

All this time, though David's shrill voice had announced the doings of Miss Bugger in streets and public places, I had gone my way unconcerned. A strict and careful upbringing had left me utterly ignorant of the language which is indicated by printers as -- - - -, or, even more unkindly, as B--, D--. So it was not until one day an elderly acquaintance pursed her lips and remarked, “Isn't it strange how children pick up these things?" following it up by a story of a precocious babe who said, “What the devil!" that I began to suspect any significance in the lady's name. Having an ex-army husband, who is adept at filling in blanks, I turned to him for help, only to be met by an obstinate smile. 

"Where ignorance is bliss - - "he murmured. “You know they made it up themselves, and it would only make you feel uncomfortable about it.” 

It was sound common-sense, and I bowed to it, but there seemed no reason why I should not attempt a change of name. Did not the textbooks tell me that the child will respond to gentle suggestion? Next time the lady was mentioned, I tried: 

“Let's give her another name. Bugger isn't very pretty. Shall she be Miss Barker?" 

Their reaction was instinctive. Back came the unanimous answers: "went it to be Miss Bugger. Must be Miss Bugger. MISS BUG-GER." 

The name became a shout, a song, a triumphal chorus, accompanied by drum and cymbals. I withdrew, and Miss Bugger she remains to this day coming and going as she pleases. I refuse to be put out by her frequent announcements that she is coming to tea, with or without her nebulous sister, I can count on her last-minute excuse making it unnecessary to lay the extra cup. But, being only a mother, I should be more then human if I did not take care to rub in the fact that, if she really is coming this time, an extra polish of manners would not come amiss. It must be remembered that of all things Miss Bugger dislikes, the greatest is "screamy boys". 

Notes and comments:

Perhaps unsurprisingly when this was published Miss Bugger became Miss Boogger.  The suggestion being that this pronunciation was derived from her ex-army husbands Yorkshire accent...