The Brandons: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘I might begin the first chapter while the kettle is boiling,’ said Mr Miller.

  ‘You look so tired,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Rest a few moments first. It is the heat, and I’m sure you’ve been down at Grumper’s End. Have the Thatchers got it yet?’

  Mr Miller said so far they hadn’t and that Jimmy would be out of quarantine next week. Mrs Brandon then related several anecdotes of her children’s infantile ailments and in time Rose came back with the fresh tea.

  ‘That is perfect,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘They have made it with really boiling water, which they so seldom do.’

  As Mr Miller preferred his tea without milk or even lemon, its extreme hotness could not be modified. He wished he dared pour it backwards and forwards from cup to saucer and saucer to cup, but this was unthinkable, so he tried to drink it scalding, hurt himself and had to put his cup down. Mrs Brandon, viewing his plight with sympathy, said she believed that putting a silver teaspoon in the cup drew off some of the heat, at least if you put a spoon in a glass when you wanted to pour boiling water into it, it usually didn’t crack, though, even so, it often did. Grateful for this kindness Mr Miller put his spoon in his cup, left it there for a moment, and tried to drink. The tea appeared to be as hot as ever, and the spoon, by now at white heat, slid round against his face, causing him considerable anguish.

  ‘I think one ought to take it out first,’ said Mrs Brandon, and picking up the spoon with her handkerchief she dropped it into the slop basin.

  Mr Miller said he would try a little milk and though he disliked the mixture excessively he was able to swallow enough tea to satisfy his hostess. Refusing a second cup, though she assured him earnestly that it would be cooler this time, he produced his typescript and prepared to begin.

  ‘This is lovely,’ sighed Mrs Brandon comfortably. ‘Will you just give me that cushion, Mr Miller, and then I shall be able to listen perfectly.’

  Mr Miller got up, fetched the cushion, put it reverently at Mrs Brandon’s back, sat down again and opened the typescript.

  ‘“Drummond of Hawthornden, in his Notes of Ben Jonson’s Conversation, on the occasion of Jonson’s famous visit to him in 1618,”’ he began, and then, overcome by the pride of authorship and the excitement of reading aloud to one who, in an earthly way, was perfection itself, choked a little and had to drink the remains of his tepid, milky tea.

  ‘You have clergyman’s throat,’ said Mrs Brandon in a voice of angelic sympathy. ‘Have a little rest before you go on.’

  Mr Miller bravely said it was nothing and he was not at all tired.

  ‘I think it is wonderful how you can speak for so long in church,’ said Mrs Brandon admiringly. ‘If I had to read the service and preach I should be quite voiceless, besides making all sorts of mistakes.’

  Mr Miller looked at his saint with an instant’s doubt, recovered himself and began again.

  ‘“Drummond of Hawthornden, in his Notes of Ben Jonson’s Conversation, on the occasion of Jonson’s famous visit to him in 1618, reports Jonson —”’ he began, when a lawn mower, whose distant whirr had sounded not unpleasantly across the garden, came roaring nearer and nearer and began to move backwards and forwards with hideous recurring crescendo and diminuendo just behind the tree. Mr Miller stopped.

  ‘Do go on,’ said Mrs Brandon, but finding her own words almost inaudible, she sat up and looked round.

  ‘That must be Turpin,’ she said, while the lawn mower was at the furthest point of its beat. ‘I have said again and again that he must get the lawns mown before lunch. Do call him, Mr Miller.’

  Mr Miller laid down his typescript and went towards the lawn mower, but as the gardener was deaf, and the noise of the machine deafening, and Turpin’s eyes were glued to the delicate watered pattern on the grass that he must follow, Mr Miller had to walk the whole length of the lawn beside him before he could get his attention. When Turpin saw who his visitor was he stopped and touched his cap, pleased at the attention, for Hettie gave her employer an excellent character as one who did not too closely inquire into matters of dusting and sweeping, provided his hours of study were not disturbed. Thinking, though erroneously, that his Vicar had come to discuss the weather with him, Turpin gave it as his opinion that this drought wouldn’t break for a long time yet, but the gardens were doing wonderful well considering and he had a nice big marrow saving up for the Harvest Festival. He well remembered, he added with a chuckle, the year he had that great whopper of a marrow, and when he came to pick it he found Miss Delia had cut a comic face on the under side with her new pocket knife. At this point Mr Miller, seizing his chance, managed to convey to Turpin by a combination of shouting and pantomime that his mistress wanted to see him.

  ‘Please take the lawn mower right away, Turpin,’ said Mrs Brandon, whose gentle voice appeared to be perfectly audible to her gardener. ‘You know I will not have the lawns done on this side of the house after lunch.’

  The substance of Turpin’s reply was that Mrs Brandon well knew he always got the lawns done before his dinner now, but if people’s cars would splutter the new gravel off the drive onto the grass edge, he couldn’t help it if stones got in the machine and Curwen had said he’d run her down in the car to the blacksmith to have the blades re-set, but being as the car was wanted to take Miss Delia over to Rushwater he had to send the garden boy down with her on the barrow, and she was only just back and running so beautiful it seemed a shame not to use her while the weather lasted.

  Mrs Brandon replied that the weather would last for a long time and he could do the lawn tomorrow, upon which Turpin touched his cap and departed, the vengeful noise of his machine growing fainter and fainter, till the silence of golden afternoon enfolded the garden.

  ‘How lovely the silence is,’ said Mrs Brandon.

  ‘Shall I go on now?’ asked Mr Miller.

  ‘Yes, do,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘And begin right at the beginning again, so that I shall miss nothing. Oh, I am so sorry, but could you just pick up that cushion again?’

  Mr Miller got up, fetched the cushion, put it with reverence slightly tinged by impatience at Mrs Brandon’s back, sat down again and opened the typescript.

  ‘“Drummond of Hawthornden,”’ he began, ‘“in his Notes of Ben Jonson’s Conversation, on the occasion of Jonson’s famous visit to him in 1618, reports Jonson as declaring that ‘He esteemeth John Donne —’”’

  ‘Excuse me one moment,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘It is Rose. What is it, Rose?’

  ‘Only the tea-things, madam,’ said Rose in an aggrieved voice, ‘but I can leave them till later if you wish.’

  ‘No, you can take them,’ said Mrs Brandon.

  ‘And Nurse wishes to speak to you, madam,’ said Rose. ‘Seeing Mr Miller was here she didn’t like to trouble you, but it’s about Miss Delia.’

  ‘Well, tell Nurse to come and tell me what it is,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘I’m sure you won’t mind,’ she added, turning to Mr Miller. ‘It won’t take a moment and then Rose will have finished clearing away and we can be quite peaceful.’

  Mr Miller could but acquiesce.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, madam,’ said Nurse, ‘but I thought I’d better speak to you. It’s about Miss Delia’s knickers,’ she continued, after a glance at the Vicar and a rapid decision that his cloth protected him. ‘She really hasn’t a pair fit to wear, not if she goes away to stay anywhere. I really don’t know what she does to them. So I thought if you didn’t need those three yards of that double-width pink crêpe de chine you got in the sales I could start on some at once. I’d just run down to the village on my bike before the shop shuts and see if Miss Thatcher can match me up some pink sewing silk.’

  ‘Yes do, Nurse,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘And tell Rose to bring me out my spectacles.’

  Nurse went off and was almost immediately seen running to the village on her bicycle.

  ‘Just one moment till I have my spectacles,’ said Mrs Brandon to her Vicar. ‘I don’t really need them, but
I like to know where they are. Thank you, Rose. Now, Mr Miller, go on where we stopped. I am so sorry for these interruptions, but now we can be perfectly quiet.’

  Mr Miller said he thought he had better go back to the beginning again, rather than pick up the thread in the middle of a sentence. He opened his typescript and began:

  ‘“Drummond of Hawthornden, in his Notes of Ben Jonson’s Conversation, on the occasion of Jonson’s famous visit to him in 1618, reports Jonson as declaring that ‘He esteemeth John Donne as the first poet in the world for some things.’ But Jonson also asserted that Donne…”’ He read on, sometimes stumbling over a word when he raised his eyes and saw Mrs Brandon’s face brooding in quiet beauty on his words. It was difficult to decide, Mrs Brandon reflected, whether she had better get Nurse to alter that apricot slip which she had felt at the time she bought it to be a mistake, or simply cut her losses and give it away. On the whole, give it away, she thought, and having decided this, so exquisite a light of peace and contentment irradiated her face that Mr Miller, turning over the second page, felt that so must angels look.

  ‘That is like Sir Edmund’s car,’ said Mrs Brandon, a distinct interest in her voice. ‘I do hope he won’t spoil our reading, Mr Miller. I daresay it is only a message about something and as soon as he has gone we will begin again. I’m glad to see he has his chauffeur back. He drives so badly himself and with his lame leg one never knows what might happen.’

  Sir Edmund was seen at the front door holding a short colloquy with Rose, who pointed out to him the party under the chestnut tree, towards whom he then directed his steps.

  ‘Well, Lavinia, out here, eh?’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Afternoon, Miller. Phew! it’s hot.’

  ‘You would like some fresh tea,’ said Mrs Brandon.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Poison to me, Lavinia, as you well know. But if that girl of yours would bring me a brandy and soda, I wouldn’t say no.’

  ‘Would you mind, Mr Miller,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘going to the house and asking Rose to bring out the brandy and a siphon and some glasses, and she might as well bring the sherry too, as Francis will soon be back.’

  Mr Miller rose, laid his typescript on his chair, and went to the house. When he got back he found Sir Edmund telling Mrs Brandon about the new drains in a piece of land over near Starveacres.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Miller,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Mr Miller was reading aloud to me, Sir Edmund.’

  ‘Bible, eh?’ said Sir Edmund.

  ‘No, no. I’m not ill,’ said his hostess. ‘It was a book of his own, all about Donne.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were keen on cricket,’ said Sir Edmund.

  ‘I was once twelfth man for my college third eleven,’ said Mr Miller, ‘but I’m afraid I can claim no special knowledge of the subject.’

  ‘What’s all this about a book about Bradman then?’ asked Sir Edmund.

  ‘I didn’t say Bradman, I said Donne,’ said Mrs Brandon.

  ‘Well, it’s all one,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Fine fellows those Australians. I must get that book. What’s it called, eh?’

  ‘No, not that kind of Don,’ said Mrs Brandon, sticking to her point.

  ‘Don Juan then, eh?’ said Sir Edmund with a loud laugh which made Mr Miller want to excommunicate him.

  ‘Don’t be dense, Sir Edmund,’ said Mrs Brandon severely. ‘It is a book about Donne, the clergyman that has his head tied up in St Paul’s.’

  Before Sir Edmund could burst with mystification, Mr Miller, concealing his mortification very well, explained that he was reading to Mrs Brandon the first chapters of a small book on John Donne, Dean of St Paul’s from 1621 to 1631, and author of a number of poems, religious and erotic.

  ‘Religious and – well, I suppose you know best, Miller, but it sounds a bit queer to me,’ said Sir Edmund, whose chivalry very properly took alarm at the word ‘erotic’ used in front of a lady. ‘Go on, go on, never mind me.’

  ‘I think if you went back to the beginning it would be better,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Then Sir Edmund wouldn’t miss anything.’

  ‘That’s right. Always do things thoroughly,’ said Sir Edmund, composing himself to listen.

  Mr Miller turned back to the first page of the typescript and began, a little nervously

  ‘“Drummond of Hawthornden —’”

  ‘Just a moment,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Thanks, Rose. Sir Edmund, will you help yourself. Do have a glass of sherry, Mr Miller, or would you rather have brandy and soda?’

  Mr Miller politely refused both and, waiting till Sir Edmund had filled his glass, prepared to begin again.

  ‘That stupid cushion again,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Oh, thank you so much, Mr Miller. Now, we will have a really cosy time.’

  It did cross Mr Miller’s mind that cosy was not perhaps the mot juste for the author of his choice, but he resolutely put the thought from him as savouring of criticism of his hostess, and took up the typescript.

  ‘“Drummond of Hawthornden, in his Notes of Ben Jonson’s Conversation —”’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Miller,’ said Sir Edmund, ‘but the name Drummond reminds me that old Mrs Perkins down at Grumper’s End has sciatica again badly. We’ll have to get her into the infirmary, but she’s a devilish obstinate old woman. Just thought I’d mention it while it was in my mind. Carry on.’

  ‘“— on the occasion of Jonson’s famous visit to him in 1618 —”’ continued Mr Miller, determined not to go back to the beginning again.

  ‘Sixteen eighteen, eh?’ said Sir Edmund. ‘That’s a deuce of a long time ago, eh? Wonderful old fellows they were.’

  At this Mr Miller threw up the sponge, folded his typescript and was wondering whether he could make his excuses without betraying the annoyance in his voice, when Francis’s car rushed up the drive, halted, and disgorged Francis and Delia.

  ‘Mother, Mother,’ shrieked Delia. ‘Oh, how do you do, Mr Miller, hullo, Sir Edmund, what do you think? Francis came to fetch me from the tennis party and as we were coming down the Southbridge Hill a car came out of Patcher’s Lane and a motor bike ran slap into it and the man went right through the windscreen. He wasn’t a bit hurt but he was bleeding like anything, so the people in the car took him straight to the Nutfield Cottage Hospital and Dr Ford was there and he put ten stitches in, and the bike is absolutely smashed to bits.’

  ‘If I had my way those hazels at the corner of Patcher’s Lane would be cut back,’ said Sir Edmund angrily. ‘That corner’s a perfect death trap. I’ve told the County Council about it again and again. When someone is killed perhaps they’ll take some notice. Well, Lavinia, I must be off. Can I give you a lift, Miller? Early to bed and early to rise, you know.’

  Mr Miller, hearing the church clock strike seven, accepted the offer and said goodbye to Mrs Brandon with a shade of stiffness which she noticed but could not account for.

  ‘It was lovely to hear your book,’ she said, holding Mr Miller’s hand in both her own. ‘You must come again and we will have another long reading, that is if you are sure it doesn’t tire you,’ she added with deep affectionate interest in her voice.

  Mr Miller truthfully said that he could have read twice as much to her without being tired and with a look of respectful adoration went away.

  ‘At it again, darling?’ said Francis to his mother as the visitors left. ‘Seducing the clergy.’

  Mrs Brandon said he oughtn’t to say things like that and she was going in to have her bath.

  Dinner passed off peacefully enough except for Delia’s lamentations that Dr Ford would not let her see the stitches put in. It was too bad, she said, that she took all the trouble to pass that rotten First Aid exam and now she wasn’t allowed to do anything. Even when Sid, the garden boy, had that huge boil on his neck they wouldn’t let her see it burst.

  ‘No, I’ll say it for you, darling,’ said Francis, anticipating his mother. ‘Delia, one oughtn’t to say things like that. It’s enough to take a hard-wo
rking young man’s appetite away. Oh, I brought out some new dance records. There’s an awfully good one called “I’m all of a muddle when I cuddle, cuddle, cuddle.” It’s played by Cash Campo and his Symposium Boys.’

  Accordingly Delia opened the gramophone and Francis turned back a couple of rugs, and he and Delia slid up and down the drawing-room to the glutinous sentiment of ‘I’m all of a muddle’ and the other records that Francis had brought. Mrs Brandon, at the far end of the room, sat under a shaded light by the window with her embroidery, pleased to see her nice, good-looking offspring enjoying themselves.

  Gradually she became conscious of an alien presence, and looking up saw Mr Grant standing outside the open window. She smiled at him.