They arranged to meet at twelve o’clock, outside the library; or if she wasn’t there, said Miss Garrett, Laura would find the car in the car park at the back of the Lamb and Lion.
Shopping in Bramworthy on a market day was a slow business. Apart from the crowded shops, you constantly had to stop and exchange greetings with friends and neighbours. It would have been better, thought Laura, if they could all have come to an agreement not to speak to one another on Saturday mornings, but no such agreement existed or was likely to exist in a community which included Mrs. Worthy and Pussy Cleeve. She managed to avoid Mrs. Worthy, but she could not avoid old Mrs. Hesford from Endbury Almshouses, who had been Mrs. Cole’s cook in the days when she still lived at Endbury and employed a cook. At Endbury Mrs. Hesford had reached the peak of her career, and she spoke of it as an ex-monarch, from the depths of his dull exile, might speak of the palace where he once reigned.
“I hear her ladyship is going to make a flat in the west wing,” said Mrs. Hesford.
Laura could not imagine why Lady Masters should want a flat in the west wing, but she knew that Mrs. Hesford, whose nephew was second gardener at Endbury, was extremely well informed about everything that went on there.
“I should think it would make a very nice flat,” she said cautiously.
“In your grandfather’s day, Miss, they used to say the west wing was haunted.”
“So I’ve heard. But I never heard of anyone seeing a ghost.”
“Oh, I don’t say there’s a ghost there now,” said old Mrs. Hesford, plainly implying that no ghost would put up with her ladyship. “But I for one wouldn’t care for to start pulling down walls and turning boudoirs into bathrooms that was built for them that’s dead and gone.”
Perceiving that Mrs. Hesford did not approve of the scheme, Laura said hurriedly that she was playing tennis at Endbury that afternoon.
“Yes, Miss, my nephew told me. Young Wallis mowed the lawn yesterday. In the old days, when your father was alive, it was always mown on the day. Most particular, your father was.”
It was difficult to be nice to Mrs. Hesford without seeming disloyal to Lady Masters, and Laura was glad when the chiming of the Town Hall clock reminded the old woman that she had a bus to catch. She hurried through the rest of her shopping, fearful of being late for her rendezvous with Miss Garrett, but when she got back to the library Miss Garrett was nowhere to be seen. She waited until well after twelve, and then went off to look for the car behind the Lamb and Lion.
Inside the Lamb and Lion, comfortably installed in the saloon bar where they didn’t object to dogs, Miss Garrett was celebrating a meeting with a dear old pal whom she had not seen for nearly thirty years. She had bought about half the things on the shopping list and the rest would have to wait, for a reunion like this did not happen every day. Right out of the blue, just on the corner of Hallgate, where she was about to cross the road, a voice had cried: “Tiger!” At first, seeing a grey-haired stranger waving to her from a passing car, Miss Garrett had looked blank, but the next instant the sound of her own name, coupled with that brief glimpse of a face framed in a Dolly Sister bob with a heavy fringe over the eyes, had touched a spring in her memory.
“Shrimp!” she yelled happily, causing twenty heads to jerk round for another glance at the fishmonger’s bare slab. With a smart tug at the dogs’ leads she made after the car, dragging Leo away from a lamppost at what must have been a highly inconvenient moment. The car had already pulled up, but as it had pulled up in the middle of the street their first excited cries were soon interrupted by impatient hootings and tootings from the cars behind. “Can’t park here, old bean,” said Miss Garrett. She opened the door and heaved herself and the dogs inside. “Drive on, Macduff,” she cried. “All aboard for the Lamb and Lion. This needs celebrating!”
So here they were, happily celebrating on whisky and ginger ale. It was certainly Miss Garrett’s lucky day; not only was there whisky in the bar, but she had the money to pay for it. And her dear old pal Shrimp Fisher looked distinctly prosperous, and was just as ready as ever to cry: “This one’s on me!” No hanging back, no keeping the whisky locked up or saying they couldn’t afford it.
“D’you know who I’m living with?” she asked, when she had made this comparison in her mind. “Bunty Selbourne.”
“Not our Selbourne?”
Those who hadn’t had nicknames had only had surnames. It was perhaps by an extension of this habit that Miss Garrett spoke of her landlord as Corton.
“Tiger, how simply fantastic! I’d simply love to see Selbourne again.”
“So you shall, old thing. She’d never forgive me if I didn’t bring you along.”
“Gosh, the last time I saw Selbourne must have been in Rouen. . . . Do you remember those awful French billets?”
“Do you remember when Spotty Kempson stayed out all night . . . ?”
“. . . No, no, Tiger, this one’s on me!”
While all this was going on, Miles Corton came into the bar to have a drink with a man he knew well but seldom met, a man who also farmed his own land but who lived nearer Bramchester than Bramworthy. It was in its way a reunion, but as they were both hard up they drank beer, and they talked of crops, cattle, and the Ministry of Agriculture, without once recalling the days when they had fished or shot together, or the more remote days when they had enjoyed the Spartan discomforts of the same public school.
Since they were both farmers they had been forced to remain on their farms during the war, and although this had been classed as essential service it did not provide them with a store of reminiscences, picturesque and practically inexhaustible, such as were now being exchanged between Miss Garrett and her friend. The room was quite full, and although Miss Garrett was sitting almost at Miles’s elbow she did not observe him; she had embarked on the story of her life, and was telling Shrimp all that had happened to her since 1919.
But Miles noticed her. Indeed, it would have been difficult to overlook Miss Garrett and her friend in their present mood of hilarity. He noticed that they were drinking whisky, and could not avoid hearing allusions to ambulances, convoys, and damn good drivers.
Laura had been sitting in Miss Garrett’s car for over half an hour when she looked up and saw Miles Corton coming towards her. He wished her good morning and asked, rather unnecessarily, if she was waiting for Miss Garrett.
“Yes, I am. I can’t think what’s happened to her. She said she’d meet me at twelve.”
“She’s forgotten you.”
“Well, she can’t have forgotten the car.”
“My dear Laura, she can. She has. She’s sitting in there having a wonderful session with a woman who is, I’m thankful to say, a total stranger to me.”
“Not Tiger?” Laura exclaimed. “Oh, Miles, I’m sure you’re wrong. I don’t think she drinks.”
Gillian would have known better, but Laura was thinking of the spinsterish, dog-ridden interior of Bank Cottage. The corner cupboard had never been unlocked for her, and she imagined that Miss Selbourne and Miss Garrett lived on bread and jam and cups of cocoa.
Miles laughed and said he would hardly be likely to mistake anyone else for Miss Garrett.
“Well, I wish I’d known. I might have gone in and joined them instead of sitting out here all this time.”
“I think you’d have felt a little out of it. They’re in full cry after the splendours of the past.”
“The war?”
“The last but one.”
“That’s what I meant. Miss Garrett is always reminiscing about it. It’s rather pathetic.”
“Nonsense, Laura,” he said, smiling. “Amusing, if you like, or tedious for an impatient man like myself. But not pathetic.”
“I suppose you would agree with Gillian. She says I waste my time being sorry for people.”
“I only said you need not be sorry for Miss Garrett. And if you’re in a hurry to get home you’d better come with me.”
“Perhaps I’d bett
er. It’s very late, and we’re playing tennis at Endbury this afternoon.”
Although Miles declared that Miss Garrett would not miss her, Laura felt bound to run back to the Lamb and Lion to tell her she was going. Tiger greeted her heartily and asked her to have a drink, but it was evident that Miles was right and that she had forgotten all about their arrangements and was in no hurry herself to return to Bank Cottage.
“I take it all back,” said Laura, settling herself in the car beside Miles. “Goodness, if you hadn’t been there I might have sat waiting for her till closing time.”
“And faced a dangerous journey afterwards. Or are you quite inured to dangerous journeys by now?”
“Oh, dear, I hoped you hadn’t noticed that.”
Miles said grimly that he couldn’t help noticing it, and added that it was not the first time either. Laura herself had been angry and frightened, but now, with perverse feminine loyalty, her sympathy swung back to Miss Garrett.
“Poor thing—” she began. ‘Oh, well, I suppose not poor thing. It was a bit careless of her. But truly, Miles, it was just an accident.”
“Very nearly an accident, and no thanks to her that it wasn’t. Don’t accept any more lifts from that woman, Laura. She’s not safe.”
“Well, she’s been driving for years, and nothing’s happened to her yet.”
“Something will happen to her one of these days, and I don’t want you mixed up in it,” he said.
Laura was a little surprised that he should show such concern for her safety.
Chapter Ten
“I wish we had a car,” said Laura. It was not far to Endbury, and the road was level except for one hill approaching the lodge gates. It was while they were pushing their cycles up this hill that Laura wished they had a car.
“We might have cadged a lift from Jocelyn,” said Gillian. “I suppose Mrs. Worthy will let him have their car to come in.”
“I don’t like cadging lifts.”
Gillian laughed. She had already heard about the expedition to Bramworthy. “Well, you didn’t cadge that one,” she said. “It was thrust on you. Think of the pleasure people get from giving us lifts. It makes them feel superior and noble-hearted.”
“It’s not their feelings I’m thinking about, it’s my own. Somehow, getting a lift always seems to involve me in some awkwardness.”
“I haven’t noticed that myself,” said Gillian, who never noticed awkwardnesses anyway. “Of course, it’s sometimes alarming. Mrs. Worthy goes too slowly, and Miss Garrett much too fast. Miles is a good driver, and so is Toby. Miss Selbourne’s all right, and I suppose Lady Masters is really, though she’s a bit ruthless sometimes. You’d better avoid Miss Garrett if she makes you feel awkward.”
Laura looked at her sister and said nothing. They reached the top of the hill and turned into the Endbury drive.
The rest of the tennis party was already assembled by the lawn. Lady Masters came forward to meet them and introduced them to Jocelyn, who was so exactly what they had supposed him that the introduction seemed almost superfluous. The rector’s daughter from Bramworthy, and the young curate to whom she was engaged made up the party. The rector’s daughter was a girl called Isabel Lumley, and people who could not think what to say about her fell back on the declaration that she was very clever and capable. She looked as if she would make a good wife for a parson, and her fiancé, who was evidently devoted to her, was generally held to have made a wise choice; for not only was Isabel clever and capable, but she was the niece of a bishop.
“You four begin,” said Lady Masters. “Isabel, Laura, Henry, and Captain Worthy.”
Jocelyn opened his mouth to disclaim the captaincy, but his hostess had turned away. The chap called Henry, taking it for granted that he would partner the girl called Isabel, was spinning a racket. “Heads,” said Jocelyn. “Rough, I mean.” It was smooth. Henry said he would serve, and Laura, knowing that Jocelyn was a stranger to the territory, made the choice of ends. It seemed to Jocelyn that no one was paying the least attention to him, and for this all too familiar situation he had a readymade phrase, a phrase which he now repeated to himself as he followed Laura across the court.
“Just my luck,” he thought, thereby absolving himself from the need to take action—except, of course, the action necessary for the game. He was partnered by Laura and not by the pretty Gillian; and Gillian was, as he had surmised, the married one.
He had lost the toss. He had been mistaken for a captain—probably Aunt Gwennie’s fault—and had missed the chance of putting things straight.
These reflections, although they did not distress him, disturbed his concentration. None of the players were very good, but Henry had a fierce, commanding service which looked much better than it was. Jocelyn quite failed to master this service, and he and Laura were severely beaten.
“Chap’s not much good,” Toby observed to Gillian, who was sitting beside him in a swinging hammock. “Keeps giving me dirty looks, too.”
Gillian had already noticed that Jocelyn admired her, and she correctly interpreted his frequent glances at Toby as indicating envy. It was pleasant to be admired, it passed the time and added to the lustre of the summer day. She thought Jocelyn a callow and undistinguished youth, but not impossible. By this she meant not incapable of improvement. He needed tidying up, he needed to be taught manners, and not to sit with his mouth open. With quite disinterested motives Gillian resolved to teach him these things.
Like Gillian, Isabel Lumley believed that people were capable of being improved. But unlike Gillian she was direct, downright, and impatient for quick results. As soon as the set was over she approached Jocelyn and told him that he had a good forehand but that his backhand was all wrong.
“You take it off the wrong foot,” she said. “I used to do it that way myself, until Henry taught me. Don’t mind my telling you—I tell everyone, because it’s such a simple thing and it does make all the difference.”
Isabel was used to instructing and advising people. She adopted a bluff, friendly manner that could not cause offence, and behind this shield she advanced steadily, armed with remorseless arguments. Gillian and Laura, and even Toby, felt rather sorry for Jocelyn, but it took Lady Masters to say boldly:
“Come here, Isabel dear, and leave poor Captain Worthy in peace. He’s not a wolf cub.”
Isabel at once stopped showing Jocelyn how to place his feet and came quite meekly to join her hostess. She had perhaps forgotten that Lady Masters could do all the instructing that was wanted at Endbury. A new set was soon arranged, which left Jocelyn and Isabel to sit out, but Lady Masters sat between them and directed the conversation.
Presently it was time for tea. They would have tea in the dining-room, said Lady Masters; men always preferred it—they hated balancing cups and plates, and Toby was quite a menace in a drawing-room. She spoke in affectionate mockery, but she gave him a look which was not at all affectionate. Had Toby been a less dutiful son he might well have described it as a dirty look, but he grinned amiably and suggested that his mother had better revive the custom of nursery tea, with bibs for messy feeders.
“There’s something about nursery tea, don’t you think, Laura? Downstairs bread and butter never tastes the same. And Nannies have such a wonderful knack of combining discipline and gaiety.”
They were walking back across the lawn. Laura looked up at the two windows on the top floor with their nursery bars. She and Gillian had not liked Toby’s Nannie, who had been strict and fussy and dignified, but she knew that Toby had been very fond of her. And Nannie, for all her strictness, had adored him. Even as a child Laura had understood that. Toby in the nursery had been important, the centre of his world, and probably he had been spoiled and petted to his heart’s content, when other children were not present to remind Nannie of her position.
Thinking of this, while she chatted to Toby about nursery teas, Laura realized that although Lady Masters adored him too, it was a very different sort of adoration. Lady
Masters was the centre of her own world, and the only importance Toby had was as a sort of accessory to Lady Masters’s importance. No wonder he was in love with the past.
The dining-room was the worst room in the house, high and narrow, and overshadowed by a fine cedar which had been planted much too near its windows, but which was now too big to move and too famous to destroy. It was a panelled room, and at one end was a massive sideboard loaded with silver. Ponderous tankards, salvers designed for a stalwart butler, a loving cup heavily and hideously embossed, suitable for a banquet, and numerous smaller objects were crowded together on the sideboard without much attempt at arrangement. Lady Masters was very proud of these emblems of prosperity, which she had inherited from her papa, and she was not pleased when Jocelyn, with a misplaced effort at politeness, asked Toby if he had won all those cups and things. She answered before Toby could speak, and her sharp scorn imposed a gloom on the party which even Henry’s hearty laugh could not dissipate. After tea she punished Jocelyn by leaving him to sit out and watch the tennis by himself, while she carried Laura off for a walk round the garden.
As soon as they were alone Lady Masters became much more genial. She dismissed Jocelyn, with a laugh, as that poor ignorant boy, and even went so far as to admit that she had perhaps been rather hard on him.
“Young people of his sort have no chance to learn about old things,” she said. “You have only to look at Mrs. Worthy’s house. Ugly, machine-made stuff, art pottery, and all those vulgar Indian gods! The name alone—! Imagine calling a house Tor Quay when it isn’t even in Devonshire, and nowhere near the sea!”
Laura agreed that it was an unsuitable name.
“Now you, Laura, are fortunate. Although Woodside is so damp, and such small rooms, you have been brought up among beautiful old things. Your taste has been properly formed.”
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