“What time does he lunch, Jimmy?” This in the awful tone of one interested in the habits and customs of the mighty.
“Half-past one, as near as possible.”
“Gentlemen of the Grand Jury,” said an announcing voice.
Counsel, who was on his feet, stopped short in his recital of wickedness – larceny of two live fowls – the Judge laid down the depositions, and all eyes were turned upon the Grand Jury Box.
“O-oh, Boy, there’s Berry,” breathed Jill, catching my arm.
With preternatural solemnity my brother-in-law manipulated the mighty landing-net, in which by time-honoured custom Bills of Indictment are passed from the Grand Jury to the Clerk of Arraigns. Breathlessly we watched, while the net with its precious parchments – a most unwieldy instrument even in sober custody – swayed and danced by way of a Superintendent’s bald head towards the Clerk’s impatient fingers. Twice an officious constable essayed to grasp it. Each time it swayed gracefully out of his reach. The second time the zealot over-balanced and fell over the official shorthand writer, to the unconcealed delight of the public at the back of the Court. The pained look upon Berry’s face as, a moment later, the net won home was indescribable.
I retired once more to the corridor.
“Well?” said my lady.
“About half-past one,” said I. “Shall we go and choose the present? We’ve plenty of time.”
She looked out of the window with a faint smile. Then:
“Goodbye,” she said dreamily, putting out her hand. “Thanks so much for finding out for me. As for the present, if you’ll give me your address, I’ll send you along a pair of gloves. What size d’you take?”
“Send me one of your own. I have a weakness for dainty—”
“You’re four centuries too late, sir,” said the girl, turning to go.
“You wouldn’t think so if you’d been in the Close this morning,” said I. “However, if you must be going, please let me see you off the premises.”
Together we passed through the great dim hall and into the sunlit court outside.
“You spoke of the Close,” she said suddenly. “Tell me the way there. I’d like to see it. I’m a stranger to Brooch,” she added. “I’ve only come for the day to see a friend.”
“Let the glove go,” said I. “That, over there, is my car. Make me a present of your company till the Court rises, though why that—”
“Should affect my life you can’t understand. I’m not surprised. But, then, you see, my friend—”
“Is a friend at Court.”
“Exactly. Yes. You shall drive me down to the Close.”
The High Sheriff’s car was standing close to ours. I knew his chauffeur well, and beckoned to him. As he came up:
“Badger,” said I, “if Mrs Pleydell asks for me or the car, tell her that I have been called away and shall be back at half-past one.”
“Very good, sir.”
We rolled down to the Cathedral and its greensward. She agreed with me that, given the coach and its splendour, the old-time atmosphere must be wonderfully preserved.
“Of course,” said I, “there was no one crying bananas just then.”
The lusty bellow of a hawker was arising from neighbouring streets.
“I dare say they cried their fruit in the seventeenth century.”
“No doubt,” said I. “But not bananas. Pomegranates or medlars, perhaps. But not bananas. The fame of Wolsey’s orange is imperishable. Can you believe that he would have risen to such dizzy heights if he had sported a banana?”
“Perhaps not,” she laughed, “but, all the same, I don’t think oranges are so very romantic.”
“But then he always had the best Denias,” said I. “And they were stuck with cloves.”
When she was tired of the Close, I asked if she would like a run in the country. Was there time? An hour and a half. Very well, please. As we crossed to the gateway, she nodded towards the old red house.
“The Judge’s lodgings, you said. They look very nice and comfortable.”
Rather,” said I. “They do themselves all right, these Judges.”
“Is that so?”
“My dear,” said I, “you may take it from me. Compared with them, fighting cocks eke out a bare existence.”
“I never knew that,” she said simply.
“And the Marshal doesn’t miss much either.”
“No?”
“No. I only once knew a Marshal miss anything really good.”
“When was that?” – curiously.
“This morning,” said I.
She laughed pleasedly. Then:
“Perhaps he won’t miss me next time. I mean at half-past one.”
“Perhaps not. But I shall. All the afternoon. And now for the country. I’ll take her towards White Ladies.”
Some twenty miles from Brooch we struck the tiny village of Maple Brevet. Small wonder that my companion caught at my arm and cried how sweet it was. Set on the slope of a fair hill, its white-walled cottages all shining in the sun, its gardens thick with flowers, the brown thatch of its roofs thick and well cared for. Sleek ducks preened themselves by the edge of the village pond, knee-deep in which a great shire horse stood lazily, wet-nosed, appreciative. The golden-haired child on the animal’s warm broad back turned himself round to see us, and touched his little forehead as the car went by. I returned his salute gravely.
“I say,” said I, as we slid by the old forge, its walls and roof near hidden by wisteria, “are you thirsty? Because, if you are, my dear, the grocer of Maple Brevet is famed for his draught ginger-beer. We always have his at home.”
“I’d love some.”
The shop stood back from the roadway, and in front was an old bench, set under lime trees. I brought the car alongside, and we got out.
“But why is there no one about?” said the girl, taking her seat on the bench.
“The people are in the fields, for the most part, and the others keep house in the heat of the day. You’re right in the old world at Maple Brevet.”
“Putting the clock back again,” she said. “I never met such a man.”
“It’s a hobby of mine,” I explained. “Hitherto, owing to some unfortunate omission, my name has not figured in Who’s Who. When it does, ‘Putting the weight,’ I mean ‘clock,’ will appear as one of my recreations.”
“And the others?”
“Smoking, London, and wondering why.”
“I can understand the first.”
I laughed.
“Oh, London’s a wonderful pastime. Like nothing so much in the world as a great big fair, full of booths, and taverns, and peepshows, its ways alive with hucksters, customers, constables, its life made up of laughter, and bickering, and brawls. Its very Courts are Courts of Pypowders. A very healthy recreation, believe me. You ought to try it. And as to wondering why – well, I’ll get your non-intoxicant first.”
I brought her ginger-beer fresh from a cool stone jar. A glass also for myself. She thanked me with a smile.
“Mind you quaff it,” I said, “just to preserve the atmosphere. They always quaff at Maple Brevet.”
“I’ll try. But you mustn’t look, in case I were to drink by mistake. And now, aren’t you going to sit down and smoke a cigarette?”
Gravely I offered her my case. She shook her head.
“Not in Maple Brevet,” she said.
For a little we sat silent. Then a bee came, drank from her glass and flew away. She broke into the old melody:
“Where the bee sucks there suck I;
In a cowslip’s bell I lie…”
She sang charmingly. When it was over:
“Thank you very much,” said I. “Omar Khayyám’s idea of Paradise is the correct one, though what in the world he wanted a book of verse for… You know, were it not for the volume of circumstantial evidence to the contrary, I should be inclined to style the inclusion of the book of verse in his recipe for bliss as ungallant.”
“Probably.”
“And now tell me about your third recreation?”
“Wondering why?”
She nodded, her glass to her lips.
“I’m always wondering why,” I said. “Always. At the present moment I’m wondering why your lashes are so long. Just now I was wondering why your feet were so small. And ever since I saw them, I’ve been wondering why your ankles are so slender.”
“I’ve been wondering too. Wondering why I let you take me down to the Close, drive me to Maple Brevet, generally do what you’ve done.”
“Yes,” I said, “it is a strange thing, isn’t it? I mean it isn’t as if I wasn’t an obvious blighter. However, if you should think of the reason, you might—”
A little peal of laughter cut short my sentence. The next moment she was on her feet.
“Come along.” she cried. “I’m sure we ought to be going. Somebody else’ll be wondering why, if I’m not back at half-past one.”
I followed her to the car somewhat moodily. I was all against this mysterious friend.
If the tire had not burst, we should have been at Brooch to time. And if the detachable wheel had not refused to come off for twenty-five minutes in the broiling sun, we should only have been five minutes late. As it was, the cathedral clock was striking two as we tore up to the Castle.
“Come,” said my companion, and flung out of the car. She sped up the great hall, making straight for the steps and the corridor that led to the Bench. I followed a little uneasily, putting my faith in Jimmy. Holy ground that corridor, meet to be trodden delicately.
By the time I had gained the passage, my lady was out of sight. She had dashed past the window where I had seen her first, round into the gloom at the back of the Bench itself. Where on earth did the girl think… I peered round the corner to see the passage flooded with light. The door of the Judge’s private room was open. Also, momentarily, the one leading on to the Bench, to admit what I took to be the person of the Judge’s butler. Fortunately he was half way through and did not see me. The door closed behind him. A quick step, and my companion appeared in the other doorway.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she said coolly. “You are slow. Come along in. Why didn’t you tell me there was this waiting-room when I was here this morning?”
“Waiting-room!” I gasped. “My dear girl, d’you know where you are?”
She stamped her foot.
“Will you come in?”
I looked at her helplessly, hesitated, and then stepped into the room. On the table were the substantial remains of a handsome lunch.
I looked round apprehensively. Then:
“This is the Judge’s private room,” said I. “It’s not a waiting-room at all. There’ll be the very devil to pay if we’re caught here. Come out of it, I beg you,” I went on desperately. “Any moment the Judge might come back for his handkerchief or – or anything.”
To my horror, she took her seat on the edge of the table, put her head on one side and smiled at me.
“He’d better go, if he’s afraid,” she said provokingly.
“Not at all,” said I. “At least, that is, I only don’t want us to be fired out ignominiously. We may be any minute, you know.”
“They can’t expect a girl to stand and wait in the corridor when there’s a waiting-room—”
“Not ordinarily, I admit,” said I. “But they’re rather exacting behind here. No true democratic spirit in them. On their dignity all the time. Besides, you know, the fact that it isn’t a waiting-room at all is against us. Gives them a sort of handle, as it were.”
She fell into long low laughter, and, putting a slim hand behind her, accidentally pushed a glass off the table. It fell with a crash.
“Oh,” said the girl.
I laughed bitterly.
“That’s right,” I said. “Having thrust into the holy of holies, we will now proceed to sack the place. Where do they keep the axe?”
At this my companion laughed so immoderately that, fearful lest her merriment should penetrate to the Bench, I stepped to the door and closed it. Then I turned to her:
“May I ask,” I said, “how long you propose to stay here and what you’re waiting for?”
“Well, the Marshal’ll probably look in presently, and I must—”
“If it’s only Jimmy,” I said, “I may be able to square him, but if—”
I broke off and began to rehearse nervously.
“My lord, it would not be proper to contend that primâ facie this intrusion is anything but unwarrantable. The truth is – er – we thought it was a waiting-room, until we saw your – er – your” – I looked round wildly – “er – unmistakable traces of your lordship. The fourpence on the table is for the broken tumbler.”
Here the door was flung open, there was a quick rustle, and the Red Judge swept into the room.
“Hullo, dad,” said the girl.
Then she put her hands on the great man’s shoulders, stood a-tiptoe and kissed him.
“And now,” said her father, “where—”
She laid a small hand on his lips.
“Listen,” she said imperiously.
Quickly she told him of my kindness (sic) and the drive to Brevet and the burst tire.
“So you see, dad, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. And we did try.”
The Judge turned to me with a smile and put out his hand.
“Anyone who successfully takes charge of my daughter for more than a quarter of an hour earns both my envy and my gratitude, Mr…”
I told him my name.
“So,” said he, “your father and I were old friends. For years we sat in the House together. He represented Shrewsbury, and I Oxford. Well, well. I must go back to the Bench. I’ll deal with you both later. If cutting a lunch with a Judge isn’t Contempt, I don’t know what is. You may consider yourselves imprisoned until the rising of the Court. I shan’t sit after three today, but that’ll give you plenty of time for lunch.”
When we had finished, I pushed back my chair and held up my cigarette-case.
“Not in Maple Brevet, I know,” I said, “but—”
She nodded.
“Here’s different,” she said.
I came round and stood by her side.
“Not so very,” said I. “I don’t see a book of verse anywhere. Incidentally, I suppose you’re still wondering why, aren’t you? I only ask out of curiosity.”
Slowly she selected a cigarette. I watched the pointed fingers.
“I always discourage curiosity,” she said, putting the cigarette between her lips. “But as you’ve been very kind, and as you did say ‘Rabbits’ first, you may give me a—”
She hesitated.
“Yes?” said I.
“A light,” she whispered.
“What about our Contempt of Court?” I said.
“I expect we shall be committed.”
“I don’t think so,” said I. “But we might easily be attached.”
3: Beauty Repeats Itself
Before we left Port Said, Jonah had sent a wire to Berry, with the result that, when we arrived at Cairo, Daphne and Jill were at the station to meet us.
I think we were much the same. I could still do with plenty of sleep, but the voyage, uncomfortable as it was, had set me up wonderfully, while Jonah was as sound as ever, except for a slight limp – he used to call it “a present from Cambrai” – which he will never lose.
Neither of us had seen the girls for nearly four years. Berry had sailed for Egypt in 1915, and when it appeared that he was likely to stay there, my sister had followed her husband to Cairo. Jill had accompanied her, naturally enough. After a while they had taken a house at Ghezireh, that fair island suburb where the English live, and there with Berry, who was steadily employed at GHQ, the two had made their home ever since.
When the armistice was declared, both Jonah and I happened to be in England – as a matter of
fact, I had just left hospital and was on sick leave – and this, together with the fact that neither of us was fit for general service, no doubt contributed largely to our early demobilization. This was actually a fait accompli before the New Year. The very next day I had received a letter from my brother-in-law stating that, while he had no desire to appear sanguine, he hoped to be permitted to return to civil life not later than the fall of 1921, and asking me whether I expected to be sent to Russia before the spring. To this I had replied by cable:
Jonah and I demobilized aaa Make arrangements to send girls home forthwith aaa you brother will continue to carry on aaa congratulations on MBE aaa report compliance.
It was Berry’s reply which was responsible for our visit to Cairo.
Dear Brother
As one to whom the contemplation of vice in any shape or form has always been repellent, I have no desire to learn the nature of the filthy and corrupt procedure to which you doubtless resorted to procure your release. This is a matter which I prefer to leave – not, however, without grave misgiving – to your ‘conscience.’ If you do not recognize the word, Jonah will explain what I mean.
Your request for the return of my wife and your cousin is not understood. Since I rescued the former, at the price of my own freedom, from the sphere of your baleful influence, her outlook upon life has not unnaturally changed, and she has no desire to sever her association with a husband for whom she has an irresistible respect. In the same way little Jill proposes to falsify a somewhat indelicate proverb.
Talking of dogs, I may say that the latter’s latest acquisition is an animal of disgusting habits which she insists is a marmoset. We call it ‘Baal.’ Its disregard for certain of the conventions which we, foolishly perhaps, are accustomed to observe is distressing. Only this morning it savaged me with every circumstance of brutality. Need I say that the untoward incident appeared to afford Daphne and Jill the maximum of amusement? The brute remains a prisoner-at-large for the excellent reason that no one is agile enough to put it under close arrest. I am putting up a wound-stripe, and propose to change the creature’s name to ‘Moloch’ by deed-poll.
Courts of Idleness Page 14