‘Yes, I hope so,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘I think it is dreadful when children stay at home for ever. I have sometimes thought that Francis was attracted by the Archdeacon’s daughter at Plumstead, such a nice girl, and the Dean’s daughters are delightful too. Delia is a bit young, but I’m sure she’ll be delighted to get married presently, and I shall let her have my second-best pearls and my grandmother’s lace veil. And then I shall have the grandchildren here and Nurse will be quite happy for once.’
‘That’s not the point, Lavinia,’ said Sir Edmund, who had waited with ill-concealed irritation for the end of her remarks. ‘Point is, you’re getting on. We’re all getting on. Need to settle down a bit for our old age, eh?’
Mrs Brandon said yes, she supposed so, and had Sir Edmund heard that Miss Brandon had left the children two hundred pounds each.
‘Good God! what’s happened to the property then?’ asked Sir Edmund.
‘Mr Merton did explain, but I wasn’t listening very much,’ said Mrs Brandon, matching a wool with her head on one side. ‘It is all to be a home for somebody, a kind of charity. It seems a very good idea, because what with the damp and the distance from the main road, no one could live there.’
‘Suppose Amelia knew her own mind,’ said Sir Edmund doubtfully. ‘More than most women do. Well, I’m glad you won’t be at the Abbey. Can keep my eye on you better on this side of the county. Wish I could keep it on you a bit more. See what I mean, eh?’
‘I’m afraid my business is rather a trouble for you sometimes,’ said Mrs Brandon plaintively, ‘but I couldn’t possibly do it myself.’
‘Of course you can’t. That’s why I want to be in a position where I can look after you. If I were here, or you were over at my place, I could keep an eye on things properly. What about it, Lavinia? You know me pretty well and I know you pretty well. You’ve not much sense, but you’re a good woman. Your Miss Morris could come as secretary to us both. Clever woman that.’
Mrs Brandon, who was used to being scolded by Sir Edmund, and had not been listening much to what he was saying, came to life at the last words.
‘Oh, but Miss Morris won’t need to be a secretary now,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you know? Aunt Sissie left her ten thousand pounds. How much would that be a year?’
‘Don’t be a fool, Lavinia,’ said Sir Edmund, exasperated. ‘How can I tell how she’s going to invest it? If she’s the woman I think, she’ll leave it where Amelia had it. Good business woman, Amelia.’
‘And what is annoying,’ continued Mrs Brandon, wrinkling her forehead over her wools, ‘is that Mr Miller is really very devoted to her, but he has that noble kind of feeling that I really call rather silly that he oughtn’t to say so now.’
Sir Edmund stared at his hostess, his face and neck going such a deep purple that she was almost perturbed. Luckily Rose came in with brandy and soda, and as Sir Edmund gulped down a very stiff drink, his face assumed its ordinary brick-red appearance again.
‘He came to me about it this afternoon,’ Mrs Brandon went on. ‘Miss Morris wants to do something for the poor here, so I said to Mr Miller, Why not give Miss Morris a list of people that really need help, and he said the Thatchers at once, so I said I’d tell Miss Morris to go down and have a look at them tomorrow at half-past three.’
Her mysterious mischief face was bent over her work and Sir Edmund was able to look at her at his ease. Seldom had he more admired his trying and charming friend. She might have no sense, but she had lightened his heart of an immense load. If marrying her had been the only way of saving her from marrying the Vicar, he had been prepared to do his duty, but not only had she apparently no thoughts of marrying Mr Miller, but was actively engaged in scheming for him to marry Miss Morris. Sir Edmund heaved such a sigh of relief that Mrs Brandon looked up in alarm.
‘Most sensible thing you could do, Lavinia,’ he said approvingly. ‘More sense than I gave you credit for. Must be getting along now. I’ll come in again about that investment some other time.’
Such was his pleasure at his escape that as he said goodbye to Mrs Brandon he put an arm round her and kissed the side of her head. She accepted the attention in the spirit in which it was offered, laughed, and promised to let him know how things went.
When Francis came back a little later, he found his mother snipping off dead roses in a very elegant way in front of the house.
‘Hullo, darling,’ he said. ‘I saw Merton in Barchester today, and he wants to know if you would give him a glass of sherry tomorrow.’
‘Of course I will,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘Shall I ring him up?’
‘No need,’ said Francis sternly. ‘I have saved your fair name by telling him to come unless he hears to the contrary. Anything happened today? I see in your face that it did.’
‘Miss Morris was terribly pleased about the money and is going to do good to the poor,’ said Mrs Brandon. ‘And Mr Miller came to see me and then Sir Edmund came. And it has only just occurred to me, Francis, that he was trying to propose to me for a moment, but he got over it, I am glad to say, almost before he had spoken.’
‘Really, Mother, you shouldn’t say things like that,’ said Francis. ‘Come in. It’s time to dress.’
On the following afternoon Miss Morris set out for Grumper’s End on foot, refusing Mrs Brandon’s offer of the car. In her hand she carried her large, sensible bag containing her overall. Mr Thatcher was out at work, but as school had not yet begun all the young Thatchers were making holiday in the narrow lane, or on the kitchen floor. Edna and Doris were absent-mindedly poking bits of tinned salmon into their unhallowed offsprings’ mouths, and three hens and a very large half-caste dog were walking aimlessly in and out of the kitchen. As Miss Morris came down the lane, a couple of young Thatchers rushed into the cottage to tell their mother that Jimmy’s Lady was coming, a piece of news that caused Mrs Thatcher to dust a chair with an old stocking and begin to cry again.
Miss Morris appeared at the door and asked if she might come in. As Mrs Thatcher could only sniff and gulp, and Edna and Doris burst into loud, primitive giggles, Miss Morris accepted this welcome, and sitting down on the chair that Mrs Thatcher pushed at her, said it was a nice day and how was Jimmy. Mrs Thatcher appeared to be incapable of speech. Doris nudged her sister Edna and smacked her child, and said Mr Miller was coming to take Mother to the hospital in his car.
‘Well, if Mr Miller is coming, we ought to get the kitchen a little tidier,’ said Miss Morris.
Fascinated by this eccentric statement, Mrs Thatcher stopped crying. Edna and Doris stopped giggling, and the children all crowded round to look at Jimmy’s Lady. Miss Morris opened her bag, took out her overall, put it on, and assumed command. In answer to her questions Doris said there was a bit of soap somewhere, and Edna volunteered that the scrubbing brush was somewhere in the yard and she said the towel was somewhere. Miss Morris looked round, and recognising Teddy, who had been in the sack race, gave him some money and told him to run up to the shop as fast as he could and bring back yellow soap, washing soda, a dish-mop, a wire saucepan cleaner, a small bottle of Jeyes’ Fluid, and three cloths for drying up. She then filled both the kettles. Doris, entering into the spirit of these preparations, carried them to the kitchen range, while Edna drove Ernie Thatcher out to bring in some more sticks, and chased all the other children into the garden, where they clustered round the door in horrified interest, gazing at Jimmy’s Lady and their illegitimate young nephew and niece, who were tied to their chairs.
Just as the kettles were coming to the boil, Teddy came back with his shoppings and the change.
‘Now, Edna and Doris, if you’ll give me a hand we’ll get the sink tidied up,’ said Miss Morris, ‘and then we can clean the children.’
Recognising an irresistible natural force, Edna and Doris, again giggling irrepressibly, so exerted themselves that the unpleasant pile of dishes, plates, cutlery and saucepans was soon washed and neatly stacked, and the sink scoured with soda and disinfectant a
nd clean enough to wash in. In a fury of zeal Doris dragged all her young brothers and sisters into the kitchen and washed their hands and faces, while Edna, disinterring from a loathsome heap of rubbish in a cupboard a broom with half a handle, swept everything that was on the kitchen floor out into the yard.
‘That’s very nice,’ said Miss Morris approvingly. ‘Now we’ll just wash out these cloths and Teddy can hang them on the fence to dry. Suppose you and Doris tidy yourselves a little, Edna. Have you a comb?’
Doris said she hadn’t seen it not since Friday, when Edna was combing Micky. On inquiring which of the children Micky was, Miss Morris was informed that it was the large half-caste dog. Without showing any signs of emotion, that admirable woman took a small comb out of her bag and gave it to the girls, saying that they could keep it and she would send them some shampoo powder. While they wrestled with their tangled golden curls in front of a small chipped mirror, Miss Morris wiped the kitchen table, put a bowl of water on it, and applied herself to cleaning the children of shame, who were too young to mind.
While she was thus engaged, Mr Miller, who had left the car at the corner because it was difficult to turn in front of the cottage, knocked at the open door and walked into the kitchen. Coming from the brilliant sunshine outside he was at first unable to see who was in the dark little kitchen, but a sense more intimate, more nostalgic than sight, suddenly seized upon his heart, making it stand still. For a moment he was a young man again on a hot summer morning, and Ella Morris in her check apron was scrubbing out the vicarage dustbin with Jeyes’ Fluid before it was used for rubbish at the Church Lads’ Brigade tea. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he saw Miss Morris, in an overall, seated at Mrs Thatcher’s kitchen table, washing the faces and hands of Purse (Percy) and Glad (Gladys) Thatcher; so he said good afternoon.
‘How do you do,’ said Miss Morris. She finished drying Glad’s face, emptied the bowl, and shook hands with Mr Miller. Mrs Thatcher began to cry again.
‘That’s enough,’ said Miss Morris with kind authority. ‘One of you get your mother’s hat. We mustn’t keep Mr Miller waiting.’
Doris took Mrs Thatcher’s hat from a peg behind the door, rammed it onto her mother’s unresisting head, and jerked her onto her feet, telling her not to keep Mr Miller waiting.
‘Here’s your purse, Mother,’ said Edna. ‘You don’t want to keep Mr Miller waiting.’
Mrs Thatcher, sobbing loudly, was propelled by her family towards the Vicar’s car.
‘Could I give you a lift, Miss Morris?’ said the Vicar.
Miss Morris, who was folding her overall and putting it in her bag, thanked Mr Miller and said she would enjoy the walk back to Stories.
‘Of course,’ said Mr Miller doubtfully, ‘I would not wish in any way to interfere, but if you could possibly see your way, without undue fatigue, to coming at least as far as the Vicarage, where I have to pick up the afternoon’s post, I should be so very grateful. Mrs Thatcher is certain to cry all the way to Barchester and probably all the way back, and as I have to drive the car I am really very much at a loss.’
‘If I can be of any real help I will come with pleasure,’ said Miss Morris, and got into the back seat with Mrs Thatcher. Amid shrill cries from the Thatcher family the car moved off.
‘I hope you made a good profit on the Fête, Mr Miller,’ said Miss Morris. ‘Now, Mrs Thatcher, you’ve had a nice cry and it’s done you good and we all know you are very brave. Now you must be brave just once more for Jimmy. If he sees Mother come into the ward crying, it will quite upset him.’
‘Jimmy was always easy upset, just like me,’ said Mrs Thatcher with some pride.
‘Yes, we did very well, Miss Morris,’ said the Vicar, speaking backwards, ‘but a most unfortunate thing has occurred. Try as I will, I cannot get the accounts to balance, and the dreadful thing is that I seem to be seventeen and sixpence in pocket, quite apart from the profit.’
‘Then the accounts must be wrong,’ said Miss Morris with calm finality. ‘There, Mrs Thatcher, that’s better. Now you mustn’t cry any more, or we’ll have to ask Mr Miller to lend you a clean handkerchief.’
‘Oh, Miss!’ said Mrs Thatcher, agreeably shocked and horrified, but much calmer.
By this time they had arrived at the Vicarage, where Mr Miller and Miss Morris got out.
‘Thank you very much for coming so far,’ said the Vicar. ‘I will just see if there are any letters for me and then I will take Mrs Thatcher on to Barchester.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Miss Morris, with what was for her unusual diffidence on her own subject, ‘if I could help you with the accounts at all. I am pretty good at them, and there is no hurry for me to get back.’
‘Would you really?’ said Mr Miller. ‘Indeed, indeed I should be so grateful for your assistance. Everything is on my desk. If you would just allow me to show you my difficulties. And Hettie would bring you some tea.’
He led the way to his study, where a heap of bills, scrawled memoranda, receipts and odd documents lay in disorder on the writing-table. Miss Morris’s eyes lighted at the sight and she took off her hat.
‘Let me just get my spectacles,’ she said, opening her bag. The overall in which she had been cleaning Mrs Thatcher’s kitchen was hiding everything else, so she took it out and laid it on the table. A strong smell of disinfectant filled the air.
‘That is Jeyes’ Fluid,’ said Mr Miller, his words spoken in a dead, level tone, forced almost with pain from him.
‘You noticed it?’ asked Miss Morris, feeling as if her own voice were coming from an immense distance.
‘From the moment I came into Mrs Thatcher’s kitchen and saw you ministering to that poor family,’ said Mr Miller. ‘Did you think I had ever forgotten?’
‘I know that I hadn’t,’ said Miss Morris. ‘It was the last day of happiness that I remember.’
‘You were cleaning the Vicarage dustbin in your apron,’ said Mr Miller, ‘and your hair was blown across your face.’
‘Do you remember that?’ said Miss Morris. ‘You put it back for me, because my hands were dirty. I suppose when things are far away there is nothing wrong in remembering them.’
She began to get her spectacles out, but found it difficult.
‘Miss Morris,’ said Mr Miller, speaking with what was clearly almost agony, ‘I had a deep respect for your father and I have never ceased to regret the pain that I gave him, the disappointment of which I was the cause. For that I offer you my humble apology. But I cannot change my convictions, even if I lose everything on earth that I hold most dear; even if I have to suffer the almost unbearable pain of wounding what on earth I most reverence.’
Miss Morris’s spectacle case fell from her hands onto the table. She wondered vaguely why it was so dark and why Mr Miller’s voice came to her across infinite space. There was silence.
‘I fear I have been discourteous,’ said Mr Miller. ‘You will, I trust, forgive me. I must take that poor woman to Barchester.’
He turned to go, but Miss Morris’s voice made him turn to her again, though he did not look at her.
‘I loved and respected my dear father more than anything in the world,’ said Miss Morris, in her usual clear, controlled voice, ‘but I cannot help seeing that he was sometimes wrong. He was unjust to you. So was I. Forgive his daughter.’
Mr Miller took a step towards Miss Morris. Her hair, as a rule so neat, was a little disordered by her work at Grumper’s End and the drive back to the Vicarage.
‘Your hair has blown across your face,’ he said, touching it very gently. ‘May I put it back?’
Then, because he and Miss Morris were so unused to outward forms of tenderness, they made no further sign.
‘It has been a very long time,’ said Miss Morris.
‘Is that your only reproach?’ said Mr Miller. ‘I don’t know how to bear that.’
‘I have never reproached you. I only loved you,’ said Miss Morris. ‘I will soon get these paper
s tidy. Mrs Thatcher will be getting anxious.’
‘How selfish happiness makes one,’ said the Vicar. ‘I will go at once. It doesn’t take long.’
‘Then I may still be here when you come back,’ said Miss Morris.
‘God bless you, very dear,’ said Mr Miller and went out. In a moment Miss Morris heard the car start. She put on her spectacles, sat down, and was at once absorbed in the papers on the desk.
The hot, golden afternoon passed agreeably for Mrs Brandon. Having got Miss Morris safely away she lay down on the sofa in her room and went comfortably to sleep. At five o’clock she had tea with Delia, with a subcurrent of mild excitement at the thought of Noel Merton’s visit. Hardly had they finished tea when a car drove up to the door and to their annoyance Mrs Grant got out, followed by her son.
‘What on earth does Mrs Grant want to come in a car for?’ said Delia, looking out of the window. ‘It’s Wheeler’s big car from the garage and a lot of luggage. I hope she isn’t taking Hilary away; it would be too sickening.’
The Brandons: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 33