‘Then if we don’t hear from her lawyers we don’t get anything,’ said Francis cheerfully. ‘Come on, Hilary, I’ll have a shilling with you on who gets the gorillas.’
Mr Grant being agreeable, each gentleman made a note of the transaction and Francis asked Miss Morris to hold the stakes, which she obligingly consented to do.
Mr Miller then said he must go, as a lot of notices for the Fête still had to be written, about teas and where to park bicycles, and the Assistant Scoutmaster, Mr Spindler’s brother at Little Misfit, who had kindly offered to help him, nearly always got his ‘Ns’ and ‘Ss’ the wrong way round. Everyone felt they ought to help too.
Mr Miller said lingeringly well he must be off. Everyone breathing again at the thought that help with the notices need not now be offered, said what a shame, with an undercurrent of relief which could only have passed unnoticed by one so simple and trusting as the Vicar. As he said goodbye to Miss Morris, she looked uneasy and then said, ‘Mr Miller.’
He stopped.
‘I don’t know if I could be of any help,’ said Miss Morris. ‘I used to write out all my father’s church notices – you probably wouldn’t remember – and as I have nothing at all to do here, I thought I could perhaps be of assistance to you.’
‘You are kind, very kind,’ said Mr Miller, humbly surprised and gratified. ‘Indeed, indeed I remember your writing, a real work of art. But ought you to try yourself so much? You have had a severe shock and need rest.’
‘Idleness does one no good,’ said Miss Morris severely. ‘And to make myself useful is my only way of thanking Mrs Brandon for all her wonderful kindness.’
‘She is indeed kindness itself,’ said Mr Miller, gratified by this praise of his hostess. ‘Mrs Brandon, one moment if I may trespass on your time – Miss Morris has kindly offered, most kindly, to help me with the notices for the Fête. While her assistance would be invaluable, for she does beautiful lettering, I feel she should not undertake too much at present.’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Brandon, voicing her knowledge of her own thoughts rather than of Miss Morris’s calligraphy. ‘I know. You bring all your notices up here, Mr Miller, and Miss Morris can have a table in the Green dressing-room, where no one will disturb her, and do just as much as she feels like.’
‘Excellent, excellent,’ cried Mr Miller. ‘But Miss Morris must not overtax her strength.’
‘I won’t let her,’ said Mrs Brandon, thus filling both her hearers with a passion of gratitude for her noble unselfishness.
Mr Miller then took his leave, promising to be back within the hour with the necessary materials. Mrs Brandon said not within the hour, because Miss Morris must have a rest, but perhaps at tea-time. Mr Miller was overcome by a sense of guilt at his own selfishness and said doubtless he could do the notices himself, but Mrs Brandon said, ‘Tea-time then,’ so firmly that he went away without another word.
‘You think of nothing but others,’ said Miss Morris to Mrs Brandon, fervently. Mrs Brandon smiled, sent her upstairs to rest till tea-time, and went back to the drawing-room where she sank, a little dramatically, onto the sofa.
‘When you look at us all with that brave smile, it is obvious what has happened, darling,’ said Francis. ‘You have as usual been a prey to doing the effective thing and now you are going to pay for it by having Miss Morris be grateful and devoted all over you, and that will make you very tired.’
‘I don’t see what else I could do,’ said Mrs Brandon apologetically. ‘If only she wouldn’t be grateful she would be no trouble at all.’
‘Well, she will be grateful,’ said Francis, ‘and if you aren’t careful she’ll stay here for ever and do the flowers. I wonder if we could get Sir Edmund to marry her. Coming to play tennis, Hilary?’
Mr Grant said he was sorry but he must go back to the Vicarage and work.
‘All right, I’ll take Delia on,’ said her brother. ‘Come on, Silly-Dilly.’
They went off, leaving Mr Grant with his hostess. Mr Grant said he must be going. Mrs Brandon felt that if anyone said again that he must be going and didn’t go at once, she might scream, so she shut her eyes.
‘I have tired you,’ said Mr Grant, all aglow to abase himself. ‘Forgive me for being so selfish. I will go at once, without disturbing you.’
Mrs Brandon felt pleasantly weak with self-pity and said nothing, hoping that her guest would go. Hearing no sound she cautiously opened her eyes again and saw that Mr Grant, far from having gone without disturbing her, was gazing down at her with dark violence.
‘You know I would do anything for you,’ he stammered, and banging into a chair he left the room.
Mrs Brandon shut her eyes again and dropped into a refreshing slumber, from which she was not disturbed till tea was brought in and Miss Morris came down. She was closely followed by Mr Miller with a parcel.
‘You see I have taken you at your word, Mrs Brandon,’ said Mr Miller, ‘and come to tea. And here are the materials, Miss Morris, if you are sure the effort will not tire you. I have cut all the notices to the right size and lightly pencilled upon them the words they should carry. The actual form of the lettering I leave of course entirely to you. I only beg you not to do more than you feel equal to. I fear we need rather a large number, two notices for the Bicycle Park, three of Teas, One Shilling, though of course the words One Shilling will be written in figures, one for the Ice Cream and Soft Drinks tent, and one or two saying This Way to the Fête, Admission Adults Sixpence, Children Twopence. These I shall have put up in the village to catch the unwary tourist. They will also,’ said Mr Miller, looking worried, ‘require arrows on them, some pointing in one direction, some in another, if I make myself clear.’
‘Perfectly,’ said Miss Morris. ‘You mean an arrow pointing one way on one notice and the other way on another so that people approaching the Vicarage from opposite directions may know which direction to take.’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Mrs Brandon, who had not been able to concentrate before because of pouring out tea. ‘If you are coming up the street from the Cow you want an arrow pointing towards the Vicarage; but if you were coming down the street from the shop, you’d need an arrow pointing to the Vicarage in the other direction.’
‘You are sure it will not be too much for you?’ said Mr Miller, looking anxiously at Miss Morris.
‘It will remind me of old days,’ said Miss Morris. ‘I still have the brushes with which I used to do my father’s announcements, and with some Indian Ink I believe I could make quite a good effect.’
‘Aha!’ cried Mr Miller. ‘I thought I remembered that you preferred Indian Ink and brought some with me.’
Mrs Brandon said she had a call to make in the village and went away.
‘I do feel it indeed a privilege to have Mrs Brandon as a neighbour,’ said Mr Miller, gazing at the drawing-room door through which she had just departed.
‘I have never met anyone so genuinely kind,’ said Miss Morris. ‘I would do anything for her to show my gratitude, but unfortunately there is nothing I can do.’
‘I am certain,’ said Mr Miller earnestly, ‘that she feels being allowed to help you in this your hour of need is the greatest privilege she could have. Besides I am sure you are the greatest comfort to her in many ways.’
‘I can do the flowers for her,’ said Miss Morris, ‘and I have offered to help with her accounts. I find that she has considerable difficulty in adding up figures.’
‘She has my deepest sympathy,’ said Mr Miller. ‘I assure you, Miss Morris, that any accounts connected with church or parish work cause me sleepless nights. For my own income that does not matter so much. When I have allotted a tenth part to my poorer brethren all I have to do is not to live outside the rest, and with the help of an occasional guest, such as Hilary Grant, that is quite possible. But on Saturday, for instance, with the Fête, I know, I positively know that I shall be confused. Last year, as I told Mrs Brandon, I found myself seventeen shillings and threepence
out of pocket. Not,’ he added hastily, ‘that I grudged the money, but suppose, which is equally probable, that I had found myself seventeen shillings and threepence to the good. How unjust would have been my stewardship of money that is only in my hands in trust for others.’
He looked so wretched that Miss Morris felt here was someone she could help.
‘I suppose you would not care to let me take over the merely technical side of the Fête accounts,’ she said, not quite knowing what she meant by the word technical, but feeling that in using it she was being careful to distinguish between helping Mr Miller as a man and as a priest.
‘Your kindness – really, Miss Morris,’ said the Vicar.
‘It would really be a pleasure,’ said Miss Morris, the spirit of a thoroughly competent daughter of the clergy beginning to shine in her eye. ‘I did all my father’s accounts, church and personal, and I have usually done the household accounts for my old ladies.’
‘No, I cannot allow myself to trespass upon your kindness, Miss Morris,’ said Mr Miller firmly. ‘Whatever muddles I have made this year are the outcome of my own stupidity and I must face the consequences. Next year – if it were not too much to ask —’
‘I don’t know where I shall be next year,’ said Miss Morris simply. ‘I have to find another situation as soon as possible.’
‘Forgive me,’ said Mr Miller, much distressed. ‘My thoughtlessness is unpardonable. And to think that I should cast my burdens upon you at such a time.’
He made as though he would sweep all the cardboard and Indian Ink into his embrace and carry them off again, but Miss Morris, ignoring this gesture, said she would like to start work at once, so he said goodbye.
‘Before you go, Mr Miller, there is one thing I must say,’ said Miss Morris. ‘If I do not go to church with Mrs Brandon on Sunday, I hope you will not misunderstand me. I know that my presence or absence could make no difference, but I would not like you to think me wanting in courtesy. I cannot so far ignore my dear father’s wishes as to attend a form of worship that he disapproved. If there is, within walking distance, a place where worship is conducted as my father would have wished, I shall go to it.’
‘I do respect your scruples,’ said Mr Miller earnestly. ‘There is Tompion over at Little Misfit, two miles by the fields though, too far for you at present; and Carson at Nutfield who would, I am sure, suit you admirably, delightful fellows both, though we do not see eye to eye. But Nutfield is too far. What can be done?’
Miss Morris begged him not to trouble, as she was well used to looking after herself, and thanked Mr Miller for his understanding.
‘Your father and I could not, alas, agree to differ,’ said Mr Miller, with one of his very rare smiles, ‘but I hope that you and I may agree on that, if on nothing else.’
Miss Morris took the cardboard and Indian Ink upstairs to the Green dressing-room and began her work.
Francis’s idle words about making Sir Edmund marry Miss Morris at once bore fruit in his mother’s fertile mind. Happening to meet Sir Edmund in the village she asked him to dine on the following night, and added Mr Grant to the party to make up even numbers. By putting Miss Morris between Francis and Sir Edmund and explaining to Francis exactly the self-effacing role required of him, she hoped to precipitate matters considerably, but being no conspirator by nature she forgot to explain to her son the part he was to play. The result was that Francis and Miss Morris, who had a sort of understanding based on a kindly cynicism about human nature, talked to each other through most of dinner, while Sir Edmund fell a prey to Delia who had, as usual, some interesting local news to impart. A mentally defective labourer on Lord Pomfret’s estate had killed the old uncle and aunt with whom he lodged by battering their heads in with a huge billet of wood. He had then knocked up his nearest neighbours, boasted gleefully of what he had done, gone home and thrown himself down the well. With what her family recognised as Delia’s luck, she had passed the cottage on her bicycle just as the police were getting the body out. True, they had not allowed her to see it, nor to try artificial respiration, but she had had the intense pleasure of seeing Something with a blanket over it taken away, after which she had had a happy day with the otter hounds.
Sir Edmund said he had heard about it from his bailiff, and the Tiddens were always in trouble of some sort.
‘Well, this was Horace Tidden,’ said Delia. ‘His father was always a bit dotty.’
‘That would have been Ned Tidden,’ said Sir Edmund, who had the intricate relationships of the countryside at his finger tips. ‘He married his cousin, Lily Tidden. She was illegitimate of course. Ford sees her in the County Asylum from time to time. Since she nearly killed one of the nurses she has been quite happy and quiet.’
By these pleasant rural paths the conversation meandered to Grumper’s End, where the chickenpox was still about. Delia said she hoped Jimmy Thatcher wasn’t sickening, but he had a horrid cough.
Meanwhile Mrs Brandon, thrown back on Mr Grant’s society, told him all about the pleated frock and the georgette that was a little too tight and the green frock that was dyed and the black and white foulard and the lilac georgette for afterwards, and Mr Grant felt that he was the kind of man to whom exquisite ladies confided their secrets and could talk about really interesting things; rather like an abbé under the ancien régime.
After dinner Mrs Brandon made another effort to get Sir Edmund into connection with Miss Morris.
‘Do, Sir Edmund,’ she said, making room for him on the sofa beside her, ‘do have a little talk to Miss Morris. She is such a delightful person and such a help to me with the flowers.’
‘Looks a sensible woman,’ said Sir Edmund, glancing at Miss Morris who was examining gramophone records with the three young people. ‘Not my style though. A bit too quiet. No life in her. Couldn’t get a word out of her at dinner.’
‘You didn’t try as far as I could see,’ said Mrs Brandon.
‘You couldn’t see at all,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Playing your tricks on that young Grant. I’ve got something I want to say to you, Lavinia.’
‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Brandon, all flattering attention, hoping to bend Sir Edmund to her desires.
Sir Edmund pulled an envelope out of his pocket.
‘You know that row I’ve been having about those new Council cottages,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve written a pretty strong letter to the Barchester Chronicle about them and I’d like you to hear it before it goes. The average reader isn’t very intelligent and I’d like to try it on you.’
Mrs Brandon said she would love to hear it, and taking up her tapestry work prepared herself to attend.
‘Don’t fiddle with that embroidery, Lavinia,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘You can’t do two things at once. No one can. I want you to listen.’
Mrs Brandon, smiling angelically, wrapped her work up again in a silk handkerchief and looked intelligent.
‘I’ll just tell you exactly how the matter stands about those cottages,’ said Sir Edmund, ‘then you’ll see the point of my letter.’
As his précis of the affair included a description of every battle he had fought with the Barchester County Council during the last forty years, and exactly what he thought of all builders and contractors, Mrs Brandon had plenty of time to construct a charming romance in which Sir Edmund and Miss Morris were married at Barchester Cathedral and she had a new dress for the wedding with one of those little hats with veils that were so becoming. Just as she was thinking how nice it would be if Mr Miller could take part in the marriage ceremony, Sir Edmund said, ‘I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I’ve been saying, Lavinia.’
‘Well, quite truthfully I haven’t heard much,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘You see I was thinking about you so hard that I couldn’t listen to you.’
‘Don’t talk nonsense, Lavinia,’ said Sir Edmund, quite unmoved by this subtle flattery. ‘I don’t suppose you were thinking about me at all. Thinking about a new dress more likely.’
‘Well,
I was,’ said Mrs Brandon meekly. ‘At least a dress that I’d had dyed. But what I really want to hear is your letter, not about the County Council. I think Miss Morris ought to hear it too. She is so practical. Miss Morris!’ she called across the room, ‘could you come here for a moment.’
Miss Morris came.
‘Sir Edmund has a most interesting letter to read to us,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘and we are sure you can help. Do begin again from the beginning, Sir Edmund, and tell Miss Morris all about the cottages.’
Sir Edmund obligingly began all over again, fought all his battles with the County Council and the contractors, and finally read his letter aloud, though with some difficulty, owing to the number of corrections he had made.
‘Pretty strong, I think,’ he said approvingly when he had finished.
‘If you will excuse me, Sir Edmund,’ said Miss Morris, who had been listening with impartial intelligence, ‘I would suggest —’ and she made one or two very practical suggestions, which would have the double advantage of making the letter intelligible and alleviating the danger of three or four separate libel actions. Sir Edmund, recognising the value of her remarks, wrote her wording over his own and then looked disconsolately upon the paper which had become a palimpsest several layers deep.
The Brandons: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 23