The Brandons: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘I could easily type it out for you if you like, Sir Edmund,’ said Miss Morris, ‘with a copy, and it would reach the Chronicle offices in plenty of time. They don’t go to press till Tuesday.’

  At this point Mrs Brandon, delighted at her success in throwing her two guests together, abstracted herself from their society and went over to the gramophone. Mr Grant was waiting for Francis and Delia who had gone to look for some records that Francis had left in his car, and was enchanted to have his hostess to himself for a moment.

  ‘I have hardly seen you this evening, Hilary,’ said Mrs Brandon in a most upsetting way, and apparently forgetting that he had been next to her for all the early part of the evening.

  ‘I was so hoping to have a word with you,’ said Mr Grant, who might have been thought by an impartial observer to have had practically nothing else all through dinner. ‘I don’t know why, but you are the only person I can really talk to about myself.’

  Having made this noble avowal Mr Grant went bright red and gazed appealingly at Mrs Brandon, who was enjoying herself immensely. The conversation would doubtless have proceeded along these interesting if well-worn lines had not Rose come in to say that Mr Merton wished to speak to Mrs Brandon on the phone. She was absent from the room for nearly ten minutes and when she came back Francis and Delia were with Mr Grant.

  ‘Who were you talking to, darling?’ said Francis. ‘You have your mysterious mischief face.’

  ‘Mr Merton rang me up,’ said Mrs Brandon, ignoring her son’s last words. ‘He is staying with the Keiths this weekend and is coming over with them to the Fête tomorrow, and said he would like to come and see us. So I said a glass of sherry about six. I couldn’t say tea, because we must have Tea, One Shilling to please Mr Miller.’

  Francis and Delia expressed loud approval of a visit from Mr Merton. Mr Grant kept his disapproval to himself and christened Mrs Brandon the Belle Dame Sans Merci in his own mind.

  ‘Well, Lavinia, I must be off,’ said Sir Edmund, coming up. ‘Miss Morris is going to type that letter for me. It will make the Council sit up. Quite a nice woman. She says she wants a job, secretary or something. If I hear of anything I’ll let you know.’

  With this lover-like speech he said goodbye and the party broke up.

  ‘I do hope you had a nice talk with Sir Edmund,’ said Mrs Brandon to Miss Morris, when she took her to her room.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Miss Morris. ‘He has kindly promised to let me know if he hears of any work I could do.’

  It was hardly the attitude of one whose heart was involved, and Mrs Brandon could only tell herself that everything must have a beginning. When she had said good night and gone to her room, Miss Morris got out her typewriter and made two fair copies of Sir Edmund’s letter. It was now eleven o’clock, but there was still work that her conscience told her must be done. The cards with arrows and directions for reaching the Vicarage had only been sketched in pencil. Miss Morris got out her Indian Ink and her brushes and sat down at the table in the Green dressing-room. As she worked she felt that she was once more at home, doing the notices for her father, and that their pleasant young guest Mr Miller would help to put them up tomorrow morning. It was true that her bedroom at home was an attic, poorly furnished with painted deal furniture and an iron bedstead, and that instead of a shaded reading lamp she would have been working by a little oil lamp while she waited for her father to call out for her to come and read to him. But though so much was changed, one thing was unchanged. Mr Miller, who if he had not behaved so unkindly to her father would have been the most agreeable pupil they had ever had, was in the Vicarage, not far away, and would be putting up tomorrow morning the notices that she was finishing now. There was yet another thing unchanged, but Miss Morris did not notice it, because it was herself, and not being given by temperament or training to introspection, it never occurred to her to consider that Miss Morris, the homeless and penniless companion, was only Ella Morris, the Vicar’s daughter, in other circumstances and surroundings. The gulf between her old life and the life of the last twenty-five years was so great that she saw a stranger on the far side of it, having little in common with herself. When she had finished she laid down her brush and pondered on Ella Morris, who had once been so angry with Mr Miller for annoying her father that she could not even pray for him. Then Miss Morris the companion put her work tidily away, but before she lay down she knelt by her bed, as she had been taught to do and had always done, and prayed for Mr Miller as heartily as if he were her enemy.

  10

  The Vicarage Fête

  1

  Next morning promised well for the Fête. As Mr Grant looked out of his window he saw the valley still shrouded in a light mist which, by a beautiful and poetical flight of fancy, he compared to the filmy veils of sleep from which Mrs Brandon would presently emerge, a goddess made manifest. He then remembered with some annoyance that his mother was coming over that afternoon, but put the disagreeable thought resolutely away and went down to breakfast. Already in the Vicarage paddock stalls were being put up and helpers were getting in the way. A lorry came crashing past the front gate and turned into the field where it unloaded the marquee in which tea was to be served. The roundabout with its steam organ had arrived the night before and was partly erected. Two oily men were carrying boats, ostriches, aeroplane bodies, cocks, horses, swans and other usual methods of transit, from the van to the platform and fixing them to the brightly polished spiral brass poles which would carry them on their circular path. Mr Miller came in, hot, but not entirely without hope.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Mr Grant. ‘It looks like a fine day for the Fête.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed it does,’ said Mr Miller. ‘I have just been putting up some of the Tea, One Shilling notices. I do hope we shall not have so much paper left about as last year. The schoolmaster has spoken about it to the children, and the Women’s Institute and the Scouts are collaborating. Mr Spindler has offered us the use of two large dustbins for rubbish of all sorts, and a party of Wolf Cubs are at this moment scrubbing them out. I shall put one near the Confectionery Stall and one near the Ice-Cream Stall. And I must have notices written for them. What would you put, Hilary? “Rubbish” or “Refuse” or simply “Waste Paper”?’

  Mr Grant thought Rubbish would do.

  ‘I must ask Hettie if we have any old cardboard boxes,’ said the Vicar. ‘White ones of course, because ink doesn’t show on brown, and then I must write the notices.’

  ‘Couldn’t I do it, sir?’ asked Mr Grant.

  ‘That would indeed be kind,’ said the Vicar. ‘I will ask about some cardboard at once.’

  But before he could ring, Hettie came in with a parcel.

  ‘Please sir, Sid brought this over from Stories,’ she said, ‘and we was to be sure to be careful with it.’

  ‘Thanks, Hettie,’ said the Vicar. ‘And do you think we have any pieces of cardboard large enough to write Rubbish on?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know sir,’ said Hettie. ‘There’s plenty of paper in your study, sir, if you wanted to write rubbish. There was that new lot from the Nutfield Co-op come only a fortnight ago.’

  ‘Mr Miller means he wants to write Rubbish on a large piece of cardboard and put it up,’ said Mr Grant.

  ‘Well, I daresay Cook or me could find something if he really wants to write rubbish,’ said Hettie, obviously impressed by her master’s determination thus to free his soul.

  ‘Look, Hilary,’ said Mr Miller excitedly.

  He had opened the parcel. In it were three exquisitely written notices of This Way to the Fête, complete with arrows, some pointing one way, some the other.

  ‘Those are ripping, sir,’ said Mr Grant. ‘And what’s under them?’

  Mr Miller drew out a rather smaller package. He unwrapped it and took out three placards on which were emblazoned the words NO LITTER. KINDLY PUT ALL RUBBISH IN HERE.

  ‘It is like an answer to prayer,’ said Mr Miller.

 
; ‘And a jolly quick answer too,’ said Mr Grant, yielding to none in his admiration of an omniscient and evidently all-potent Providence. ‘I mean you’d only just begun thinking about the rubbish, hadn’t you, sir?’

  ‘There are things that we do not understand,’ said Mr Miller, truthfully, and at the same time much abashing his pupil. ‘But here is a letter which will doubtless explain. You may read it,’ he added, pushing it towards Mr Grant.

  The letter was neatly typewritten and ran as follows

  Dear Mr Miller,

  I am sending you the notices of the Fête. Mrs Brandon is kindly allowing the garden boy to take them over as I am sure you will be early at work. You may remember that my father, who had a great dislike for disorder of any kind, always had receptacles for paper and other rubbish at any church functions. In case this thought has also occurred to you, I am also sending you three notices. If you have no special receptacles for litter, I might suggest that empty dustbins, well scrubbed out with a disinfectant, would answer the purpose. I always cleared the Vicarage dustbin myself for this purpose in old days. With every good wish for the success of the Fête,

  Yours sincerely,

  Ella Morris.

  ‘How marvellous of Mrs Brandon to think of sending them over early,’ said Mr Grant in a reverent voice.

  Mr Miller began to busy himself in tidying the paper and string that were littering the end of the dining-room table. He suddenly remembered a summer morning more than twenty-five years ago and Mr Morris’s daughter in a check apron outside the kitchen door, carrying a pail of water and a scrubbing brush. Young Mr Miller had offered to carry the pail, but Miss Morris had said she could quite well manage, but would he be kind enough to get the tin of Jeyes’ Fluid off the scullery window sill, as she must clean out the dustbin for the Church Lads’ Brigade tea and entertainment. The smell of disinfectant came nostalgically back to him across the years. He stopped smoothing and folding the papers and stood still.

  ‘You look a bit tired, sir,’ said Mr Grant, with real concern. ‘You haven’t had breakfast yet. I’ll clear that paper away.’

  Mr Miller, remembering that he must be hard at work all day and not fail his parishioners at any point, obediently sat down and made a fairly good breakfast.

  ‘You had better make a good meal now, Hilary,’ he said. ‘Hettie and Cook always have the day off for the Fête and I’m afraid it will only be the sort of lunch they leave on the table. I sometimes wish that cold tongue and tomatoes had never been invented.’

  When Miss Morris, who did not always get up for breakfast, came down about eleven o’clock she found her hostess slightly discomposed.

  ‘I cannot make up my mind about this afternoon,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘I meant to wear the black and white foulard, the one I lent Delia for the funeral, but Nurse wants me to wear the lilac georgette and make Delia wear the foulard.’

  ‘I think Nurse is right,’ said Miss Morris gravely. ‘With that pinkish hat and scarf of yours it would look very well.’

  ‘I had thought of that,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘But I don’t see how one could really count pink as mourning.’

  Miss Morris said it was two days after the funeral.

  ‘Yes, I have put it to myself that way,’ said Mrs Brandon with an air of broad-mindedness, ‘but I somehow feel that one cannot quite go out of mourning on a Saturday. Monday would be all right, but I can’t quite feel Saturday. But it is all very mixing, because if one goes on wearing mourning for Aunt Sissie it looks as if one were trying to influence her.’

  Miss Morris pointed out that as Miss Brandon’s will must necessarily have been made before her death, it was highly improbable that it could be in any way influenced by Mrs Brandon’s choice of a dress. Mrs Brandon, while admitting the justice of this contention, said that she had a feeling about it. Having thus settled the question she asked Miss Morris what she meant to wear.

  ‘My usual blue dress,’ said Miss Morris.

  ‘Wouldn’t the black georgette be cooler?’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘It’s going to be frightfully hot. Or if you wouldn’t mind the black and white foulard Delia would love not to wear it. She wants to wear a green dress and Nurse is making difficulties.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Miss Morris, ‘but I think my blue dress would be best. I haven’t any reason to wear mourning and a long dress would not be very suitable for me. I thought Mr Miller might need a little help during the afternoon, and if I take an apron with me I shall be quite prepared.’

  ‘But you mustn’t dream of helping,’ said Mrs Brandon, genuinely anxious about her protégée’s health. ‘You aren’t up to it. You have no idea how stuffy everything gets, and all the children, and the noise of the roundabout. I am always exhausted after an hour of it.’

  ‘I am quite used to that sort of thing,’ said Miss Morris. ‘I ran everything for my father when I was a girl and I always got on well with the children. Of course we couldn’t afford the roundabout – it was a very poor parish – but we had the Temperance Silver Brass Band and the noise they made was quite dreadful.’

  Mrs Brandon gave in and with considerable heroism said she would wear the foulard, so that Delia would be free to wear her green frock.

  ‘Lunch has to be at one today,’ she said. ‘I do hope you don’t mind, but the maids all take it in turns to go down to the Fête, so it will be a kind of picnic.’

  The picnic, which included veal cutlets and three vegetables and a chocolate soufflé and gooseberry fool (which was still tyrannising over the countryside) with little freshly made almond fingers and cream cheese and several sorts of biscuits and coffee and a choice of lemonade, white wine and cider, was being repeated with differences all over the neighbourhood. At the Vicarage Mr Miller and Mr Grant were mildly depressed by slices of pressed beef from the Barchester Co-op gently perspiring on a blue dish, three overripe tomatoes, and the remains of yesterday’s stewed gooseberries put into a smaller dish. At Southbridge Mr and Mrs Keith, their unmarried daughter Lydia and their guest Mr Merton had lunch at a quarter past one instead of half-past, so that the parlour-maid and the cook could catch the motor bus. Those excellent fellows Tompion at Little Misfit and Carson at Nutfield, found themselves condemned, by a kind of unwritten law one supposes, to the same pressed beef, tomatoes, and yesterday’s stewed gooseberries as were being served at Pomfret Madrigal Vicarage. Mr Tompion, who was famed for his bad luck, had the heel of one piece of pressed beef and the toe or beginning of another, because he had done the shopping himself in Barchester and was too humble to tell the young man at the Co-op to give him a quarter of a pound from a nice piece that was already in cut. Mr Carson, on the other hand, had some nice fresh slices, personally chosen by his housekeeper who liked pressed beef herself, but the gooseberries, which she didn’t like, were two days old and tasted of ferment, besides having one or two suspicious patches of fur, so that only fear of the housekeeper made Mr Carson eat them at all. But everyone will be glad to know that both these gentlemen married within the year, Mr Tompion in January a Colonel’s daughter from Leamington, and Mr Carson at Easter a very nice widow from the Midlands who stood no nonsense from servants, and both ladies treated their husbands extremely well.

  At Norton Park Lady Norton said to Mrs Grant that they would not have a glass of sherry before lunch, so that some of the servants could go in the estate Ford to the Fête, a piece of altruism which made her butler, who was not going, despise her. The only person who really picnicked was Sir Edmund, who disliked lunch and seized the opportunity of having sandwiches, which he ate in front of the Council cottages in a manner highly disconcerting to his enemy the foreman, who felt nervously compelled to work right up to the legal time of knocking off.

  Down at Grumper’s End Jimmy Thatcher, who had a nasty cough and an obvious temperature, ate far too much pickled pork because his mother said if he didn’t finish what was on his plate he could go to bed and stay there, and to hurry up about it.

  By half-past two the first
piercing blasts of the steam organ announced to the village, most of whom were already on the field, that the Fête had really begun. The gentry did not begin to turn up till later, among the first being the party from Stories. Mrs Brandon had insisted on giving a ten shilling note to each of her party, to be spent at the various stalls. Francis and Delia gladly accepted the gift and Miss Morris’s protests were overruled by all three Brandons, who pointed out that she was for the present one of the family. Her protestations were finally cut short by Francis, who with great foresight had laid in two pounds’ worth of sixpences, threepenny bits and coppers at the bank in Barchester that morning, and offered to change everyone’s notes for them.

  ‘That is really practical,’ said Miss Morris admiringly. ‘I can’t think why we never thought of that at our Fêtes. I remember what difficulty we always had about change, and as we always had the Fête on a Thursday, which was early closing day, the shop and the bank were shut.’