The Brandons: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  Outwardly all the congregation looked much as usual and no one, hearing Sir Edmund read the lessons in his usual orderly-room manner, taking all the difficult names in an unhesitating and often incorrect stride, would have guessed that he was reflecting upon his responsibility for preventing his Vicar and his old friend Mrs Brandon from making fools of themselves.

  After the service there was the usual talk outside the church door as the congregation dispersed. When the Vicar came out he approached the little group where Mrs Brandon was standing with Sir Edmund and the Grants. He looked anxious, a fact which did not escape the keen eye of his churchwarden.

  ‘Morning, Miller,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘That was a queer first lesson. Something to be said for having the Bible in Latin, eh? You look a bit queer too. Had a bad night?’

  Mr Miller said he hadn’t slept very well.

  ‘It was the Fête,’ said Mrs Brandon sympathetically.

  ‘Got the accounts wrong again?’ asked Sir Edmund.

  Mr Miller said he hadn’t been through them yet.

  ‘No, no, of course not. Sunday,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Thirteenth after Trinity and all that. Never mind. They’ll keep and I daresay you’ll get them just as wrong tomorrow. Remember the year you were seventeen and threepence out of pocket. Well, be sure to let me know if there’s any deficit. Mustn’t muzzle the ox, you know, eh?’

  Mr Miller smiled feebly. Not that he in the least resented Sir Edmund’s remark about the ox, or the implication that he lined his own pockets out of the takings of the Fête, for he knew his churchwarden’s kindness of heart, but there were reasons why he could not bear to think of any deficit being made up by him. One does not like to take too much charity from a man whom one really likes very much and is trying not to dislike.

  ‘Mr Miller,’ said Mrs Grant, ‘will you mind very much if I take my Boy back to lunch at the Cow? I feel I must see all I can of him before I go.’

  Mr Miller, who had counted upon Mr Grant to do justice to the Vicarage roast beef and knew Cook would be annoyed if he said he really couldn’t face a heavy lunch, said indeed, indeed she must have Hilary. Mr Grant, who had only come to church out of kindness to his host, and was straining to get back to his novel, looked at his mother in black despair.

  ‘We shall have a little festa,’ said Mrs Grant gaily. ‘I have told Mrs Spindler exactly how macaroni should be prepared, and we will imagine we are in Calabria.’

  Mr Grant looked as if this exercise of the imagination would afford him no pleasure at all, but said nothing.

  ‘Mrs Brandon,’ said Mr Miller, ‘would I find you in sometime tomorrow afternoon? I very much want to speak to you, alone.’

  Although he had said these words in a low voice, they had not escaped Sir Edmund’s attention.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Do come to tea and I’ll tell Rose I am not at home, only I’m afraid we can’t have tea in the garden in that case, because it is really quite impossible to say one is not at home when there one is in full view under the chestnut. I do hope it isn’t the accounts, because I can’t do them at all.’

  Mr Miller assured her that it was not the accounts, but only a small private matter. Sir Edmund, who deliberately overheard this, was more than ever perturbed and resolved to think the matter over seriously.

  Mr Miller went back to the Vicarage, told Hettie that Mr Grant would not be in to lunch and sat down alone to a round of beef, which was what Cook and Hettie liked on Sundays. For a moment he thought of putting the helping he had cut for himself under Hettie’s eye into an envelope and burying it, but he knew he would not be clever enough to conceal the crime and in any case would be acting a lie. So he chewed his way industriously through red meat, grey potatoes, damp cabbage, and stony apple-pie. With the uninteresting cheese courage was given him to tell Hettie he had had enough and didn’t want any coffee as he had to go to Grumper’s End. He found a faint satisfaction in sitting in Mrs Thatcher’s kitchen, giving her the latest news of Jimmy (who was going on well) and promising to take her to see him at the hospital next week. The cottage appeared to him in an even more deplorable condition than usual. Edna and Doris were washing their hair over the dirty sink, dirty dishes lay about, the younger Thatchers were playing on the dirty floor with their illegitimate young nephew and niece, a few clothes, washed out in a slovenly way by Edna and Doris, lay about the room because no one could be bothered to hang them out in the sunshine. In the corner Thatcher, unshaven, was enjoying his after-dinner pipe and reading in his Sunday paper about the forthcoming autumn football pools. Everything smelt of frowstiness and stale food. Looking round upon the young Thatchers, all of whom seemed to thrive upon their parents’ slatternly methods, the Vicar blamed himself severely for want of tolerance and wondered how he would manage on thirty-five shillings a week.

  Just as he was sitting down to his horrid cold Sunday supper his pupil came in.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry I’m late, sir,’ said Mr Grant.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said the Vicar. ‘I’m afraid it’s only cold beef and pickles. Hettie said they were too busy clearing up after the Fête to do baked potatoes tonight. I am so sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right, sir,’ said Mr Grant. ‘I’m off farinaceous food altogether since lunch. Mother had a most unholy row with Mrs Spindler about macaroni. She wanted to show her how to cook it and Mrs Spindler, who I must say is usually awfully nice, was a bit off colour after the Fête and there were a lot of extra Sunday dinners for motorists and things and she seems to have gone off the deep end altogether. Oh, that’s heaps, sir, thanks,’ said Mr Grant, hastily withdrawing his plate upon which the Vicar had been heaping slices of beef while Mr Grant talked. ‘We did get the macaroni, but it was not a success, and then it was ground rice shape and I felt I must do something not to hurt Mrs Spindler’s feelings, so I had two helpings. Oh Lord! Sorry, sir.’

  ‘I am indeed sorry,’ said the Vicar. ‘I’ve never known Mrs Spindler be rude to a visitor before.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t known my mother before, sir,’ said Mr Grant. ‘But one good thing is that Mother says she must go back to Italy. She has lots of rows with the hotel people there, but somehow rows are different in Italy and people always seem a bit cheered up by them, if you know what I mean. How’s Donne, sir?’

  ‘I have been correcting the galley proofs,’ said the Vicar, flushing with mild pleasure at his pupil’s interest. ‘I must say the work has been very well done, and I find very few mistakes. The only thing that worries me now is the question of a dedication.’

  ‘Who were you thinking of dedicating it to?’ asked Mr Grant, feeling very respectful towards a person who had real proofs to correct.

  ‘I had thought —’ said the Vicar, and then broke off.

  ‘What about your old college, sir?’ asked Mr Grant. ‘I should think they’d be jolly pleased.’

  ‘How nice of you,’ said the Vicar. ‘If it were a work on a classical subject I should not hesitate to make a suggestion. But Donne —. I fear the Master would think such a dedication frivolous. How is your own work?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve been a bit slack lately,’ said Mr Grant, guiltily conscious of books unread and essays unfinished. ‘I’ll put in some solid work tonight and really get down to it next week.’

  ‘I meant your own work,’ said the Vicar.

  ‘My own work?’ said Mr Grant, going bright pink.

  ‘I suppose it’s a novel,’ said the Vicar.

  ‘Yes, sir. But how on earth did you know?’

  ‘The usual sign,’ said the Vicar mildly. ‘I’ve had a good many pupils, you know. When they come down to meals looking drunk and sometimes very cross and nearly always peculiar in manner, it always means a novel. Besides, I wrote one once myself.’

  ‘Did you really, sir?’ asked Mr Grant, suddenly seeing his tutor in a new and respectful light. ‘Could I read it?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said the Vicar, secretly flattered at this interest. ‘I to
re it up soon after I had finished it. But I remember exactly how I felt when I was writing it and how drunk – if we may use the expression – literary composition made me. I am afraid I wasn’t always an easy companion during that period.’

  ‘What was it about, sir?’ asked Mr Grant.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said the Vicar vaguely. ‘Quite an ordinary story about two young people who thought they cared for each other and were separated by circumstances. One is told,’ he added, more to himself than to his pupil, ‘that first novels are nearly always autobiographical.’

  He fell into a kind of muse, forgetful of his pupil’s presence. Mr Grant felt respectfully uncomfortable and being still young enough to believe that his own affairs must interest all his friends he rather shyly asked the Vicar if he would like to hear about what he was doing.

  ‘What you are doing?’ said the Vicar, bringing himself back to life with an effort that his young friend did not notice. ‘Indeed, indeed, my dear Hilary, I should be delighted. Don’t think I wish to press your confidence in any way, but it would really interest me immensely. Let us go into the garden. It feels so hot and heavy indoors.’

  ‘I was doing a kind of monograph on that French poet, Jehan le Capet, that I told you about,’ said Mr Grant, as they installed themselves on the seat by the heliotrope border, ‘but I was talking about it to Mrs Morland at the picnic and she was awfully helpful about publishers and things and then I met her again at the Fête and she said why not make a novel out of it?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Mr Miller.

  ‘So,’ continued Mr Grant, enchanted by this encouragement, ‘I thought I’d have a stab at it. Mrs Morland’s awfully nice and she’s a real author. I mean people ask for her books in libraries. And she’s the sort of person you can really talk to about anything. I mean things you couldn’t talk to other people about.’

  ‘Yes, I should think Mrs Morland is extraordinarily broad-minded about things she really knows nothing about,’ said the Vicar, a remark whose unexpected profundity rather staggered Mr Grant. ‘And now tell me how you propose to treat your novel.’

  Encouraged by the growing darkness which enabled one to say words like ‘mistress’ in front of one’s tutor without feeling uncomfortable, Mr Grant embarked upon his subject, and having once begun saw no reason to stop. The Vicar found his pleasant eager young voice no hindrance to his own thoughts and they sat, each full of his own dreams, till the late full moon had risen above the trees.

  On Monday morning Francis, coming down just before half-past eight to have his breakfast and go off to his work, was very much surprised to find his dear mother already downstairs and walking about the room. To see her so early and to see her restless were phenomena which, taken together, could not fail to strike an intelligent observer.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Francis, ‘it’s Monday.’

  ‘The post is usually a bit late on Mondays,’ said Mrs Brandon, looking out of the window.

  ‘I say,’ said Delia, as she came in, ‘has the post come?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said her mother. ‘He never does on Monday because of helping his cousin at the dairy.’

  ‘I do hope Miss Morris will get down before he comes,’ said Delia. ‘I want to see if she’ll throw a fit or something when the news comes. Do you suppose it will come this morning, Mother?’

  ‘Mr Merton said so,’ said Mrs Brandon, ‘and he ought to know because he’s a lawyer.’

  ‘People do sometimes die of shock when they get very good news,’ said Delia hopefully, but at the moment Miss Morris came in, looking as neat and collected as ever, and this interesting conversation had to stop.

  Miss Morris ate her breakfast with good appetite, wondering a little why Francis and Delia were talking in such a disjointed way.

  ‘You don’t often come down to breakfast, do you, Mrs Brandon?’ she asked.

  ‘Sometimes, but not very often, at least I hardly ever do, but just now and then, or really hardly ever, unless you count the days one has to get up early, like going abroad,’ said Mrs Brandon with the air of one giving a thoroughly lucid explanation.

  Francis and Delia began to laugh. Francis choked and Delia hit him on the back and they would probably both have had hysterics had not Rose come in with the letters. One might have heard a pin drop, as Francis dramatically said to Mr Grant later in the day, while Miss Morris looked over her little pile of letters.

  ‘They all look like business,’ she said. ‘I shan’t spoil my breakfast with them.’

  If maddened frustration could kill, Francis and Delia would certainly have killed her on the spot. Even Mrs Brandon thought vaguely that Miss Morris was perhaps a little inconsiderate, but a fat envelope bulging with patterns of material for new curtains held her attention for the moment. Francis got up and went to the sideboard to find a little something to round off his breakfast. After cutting himself two slices of ham he returned to his place, and said to Miss Morris, as carelessly as possible, ‘Why not look at them now, Miss Morris? It’s unlucky to leave letters unopened at breakfast.’

  He looked across at his sister to demand her sympathetic applause for this brilliant piece of diplomacy, but Delia did not respond. To her brother’s alarm she was sitting with a flushed face and her mouth open, and staring fixedly at nothing.

  ‘Hi, Delia, what’s up?’ Francis asked. ‘Has something stuck in your gullet? Wait a minute and I’ll come and hit your back.’

  To this kind suggestion Delia’s only answer was the words, ‘Two hundred pounds!’

  ‘Pounds of what?’ said Francis. ‘Pull yourself together, my girl.’

  ‘Aunt Sissie! Two hundred pounds!’ Delia gasped. ‘It says so in a letter. Mother, is it real, do you think?’

  She pushed a letter across the table to her mother who read it with provoking coolness and said she thought it was quite real.

  ‘Well!’ said Francis, who had got up again and was reading the letter over his mother’s shoulder, ‘who would have thought Aunt Sissie had it in her. Now we can get those records, Delia.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Delia, ‘I’ll give you half.’

  ‘No, you jolly well won’t,’ said Francis. ‘Oh Good Lord! hang on a moment. I’ve got a hunch.’

  He dashed back to his place, tore open his letters, held up one of them and said triumphantly,

  ‘There! Two hundred pounds for me too. Well, well, well. Good old Aunt Sissie. Let’s go to Monte Carlo and stake it all and double it and take away the number we first thought of. I’ll give you half, Delia, to make up for the half you’re giving me. I say, Mother, what about you?’

  ‘Aunt Sissie gave me my ring,’ said Mrs Brandon, looking with complacency at her graceful hand which bore only her wedding ring and Captain Brandon’s diamond. ‘I am so glad she remembered you both, and two hundred pounds is such a nice sum, because you feel it isn’t worth investing.’

  Miss Morris then said, with every evidence of sincerity, how glad she was of this good fortune and quite agreed – she who had counted less than half that sum as riches for a year – that the great thing about two hundred pounds was that one could spend it; that it became indeed a kind of solemn duty to spend it. By the time she had finished saying this her young friends could have shaken her till every tooth in her head rattled, but the conventions forbid one to press one’s guests, who may have very good reasons for their conduct, to open their letters in one’s presence.

  ‘Well, I must be off,’ said Francis. ‘If I get the sack for being late two hundred pounds won’t support me till I get the Old Age Pension. How soon do we get the money, Mother?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea, darling,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Ask Mr Merton.’

  ‘When is he coming?’ asked Francis.

  Mrs Brandon said she didn’t know, but Mr Merton had said he would telephone. Her son Francis looked at her and grinned at his sister.

  ‘What you mean, darling, is that you asked him to ring you up,’ said Francis. ‘Well, I
must be off.’

  He made a last face at Delia, indicative of hatred for people who would not read their letters, and went away to his car. Delia, after gazing with silent animosity upon the unconscious Miss Morris, went into the garden. Mrs Brandon, giving the whole matter up as a bad job, went off to see Cook in her sitting-room leaving Miss Morris looking at the advertisement pages of The Times.

  Cook was in a good mood and Mrs Brandon was soon able to apply herself to her correspondence. She was in the middle of writing an account of the Fête to her old governess, who lived in Cheltenham, when Miss Morris came in and asked if she could spare a moment.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Brandon, laying down her pen with a gentle feeling of excitement. ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘I don’t quite understand this letter,’ said Miss Morris, apparently as composed as ever.

  Mrs Brandon asked if she might see it. Miss Morris handed a letter to her and Mrs Brandon noticed that her hand was shaking.