“It’s very expensive!”
“All the same I should like it. I should like to make return for the hospitality I have received. Would Mr. Morris care to come?”
“Well, no, he wouldn’t really; he doesn’t like going out to lunch . . . but it would be lovely for us, of course. Do you really want us or are you just being polite? Lewis says it’s a frightful bore having relations to lunch.”
He laughed. “But you and Mrs. Morris are not my relations, Sarah.”
“All the same, it might be a bore.”
“It will not be a bore,” he declared. Then he lifted the tray – it was the big silver tray and it really was very heavy – and carried it into the drawing-room.
*
The drawing-room was large, it was shaped like an L with a bow-window and a glass door which led into the garden. The fitted carpet, with an all-over design of roses, had faded into soft shades; the cretonne covers and pink velvet curtains had faded too. Lewis was ashamed of the drawing-room (he said it was old-fashioned) so I wondered what his friend would think of it.
“Oh, but this is perfection!” exclaimed Charles, standing in the doorway with the tray in his hands.
“You mean this room?” asked Lewis incredulously.
“Yes, indeed! But perhaps it is impolite of me to make the remark? It is just that I cannot help it.”
“But, Reeder, it’s terribly shabby!”
“No, no, it is right for the house – and right for Mrs. Morris. Time has been gentle here.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
Father said, “Lewis, take the tray from Charles.”
Lewis got up, muttering, “Well, I don’t know what he means.”
“Charles’s meaning is perfectly clear,” declared father. “Time has had a hand in the making of your mother’s drawing-room; everything has been here for years and has matured gently in the sunshine. There isn’t a jarring note.”
“Yes, that is what I meant,” said Charles. He looked round and added, “Oh, a Bechstein!”
“Are you fond of music?”
“It is what I have missed more than anything!”
“But there’s plenty of music at Oxford,” objected Lewis. “You go to concerts and you’ve got a super radiogram.”
“I cannot make music,” explained Charles. “At home we make music; my father plays the violin and Rudi his ’cello. Often we have friends to come in the evening and play with us. It is good to listen to music but better to make it.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” admitted Lewis. “It’s better to play cricket than to watch it.”
Charles had crossed the room and was looking at the piano; he laid his hand caressingly on the shining wood.
“Play to us, Charles,” suggested mother.
“Not now!” exclaimed Lewis. “I’m going to take him round and show him the place. You want to see it, don’t you, Reeder? You said it was like Barchester.”
Charles hesitated.
“Come on,” said Lewis, rising. “It’s too fine an afternoon to fug indoors.”
He allowed himself to be dragged away.
“Charles wanted to play the piano,” I said.
“He’s Lewis’s friend,” said mother. “It’s natural that Lewis should want Charles to himself for a nice little chat.”
I had hoped that Charles would play the piano later, but I was disappointed. Lewis and Charles were late in coming back for tea and afterwards mother showed Charles some miniatures which she kept in a glass-topped table. Most of them were old family heirlooms, and valuable, but there was one of Lottie when she was three years old. It had been painted by a good artist and was very like her.
“This is my baby,” said mother, smiling and handing it to him.
“But she is lovely!” Charles exclaimed. “I did not know you had another daughter, Mrs. Morris.”
“She’s my baby,” repeated mother, looking at the picture fondly. “She’s much younger than the others. We’re all devoted to her – and I think perhaps we spoil her a little.”
“But that is natural,” said Charles, smiling. “The baby is everyone’s pet.”
Mother always talked of Lottie like that; it used to annoy me, for Lottie was only two years younger than I was . . . and even then, at the age of twelve, she was a definite person with her own very definite ideas. She had begun to come to St. Elizabeth’s with me and I had intended to look after her until she found her feet (I remembered what it was like to be “a new girl”) but Lottie dropped on to her feet without any help from me; she loved school and had her own little circle of friends.
When Charles had gone I began to wonder if he had said anything to mother about lunch at The Mitre but she didn’t mention it, so I decided that he must have changed his mind.
Part Two
Chapter Seven
When the summer holidays began Willy went to stay with the Romfords at Wimbledon; he went off very cheerfully, saying that Mr. Romford was going to show him the engineering works.
One morning I was in church with mother, helping her to polish the brasses, when I heard the sound of music. At first I thought that Lewis had switched on the wireless . . . and then I remembered that Lewis and Lottie had gone to lunch at the Meldrums’; I opened the church door and listened. Someone was playing the piano in the Vicarage . . . and it certainly wasn’t father! I ran across the churchyard, through the little gate and down the path and peeped in at the glass door in the drawing-room. Charles was sitting at the piano and playing!
I stood on the step and listened entranced; it was tremendously exciting – I had never heard anyone play like that! The piano was sideways to the window so I could see his hands; sometimes they chased each other up and down the keys; sometimes they paused and struck a chord caressingly. He leant forward and played so softly that the piano seemed to be singing; he leant back and made the piano shout in triumph.
Presently he got up and came over to the window. “Sarah! I did not know I had an audience!” he exclaimed.
“It’s only me.”
“Only Sarah,” he said, smiling. “Well, the audience had better come in. I was going to shut the window because it occurred to me that I was making too loud a noise. I meant to play softly . . . but then I forgot.”
I went in and he shut the window.
“I hope it is all right,” he said doubtfully. “Mr. Morris said I might come and play on the Bechstein when I liked; it is now the vacation so I am more free – and I came.”
“Father always means what he says.”
Charles nodded. “It was foolish of me to ask.”
“Please go on playing, Charles.”
“You like music? Perhaps you play yourself?”
“I play tinkle, tinkle, that’s all. If I could play like you I’d like it.”
“Oh dear!” exclaimed Charles, laughing. “You play tinkle, tinkle – and you do not like it!”
“No, it’s a waste of time. I wish you would go on playing. The piano sang for you. It never does that for anyone else. It sang and shouted . . . and whispered. Why don’t you go on playing?”
“Because I am having a very interesting conversation with Sarah. Let me see your hands,” he added, sitting down beside me on the sofa.
I hid them and said, “No, they’re dirty; I’ve been helping mother to clean the brasses in church.”
“Then it is good dirtiness . . . and it does not matter because I can see through the dirtiness.” He took my hands and felt them carefully, stretching them out and flexing the fingers. “They are fine hands, well-shaped and strong . . . so there is no excuse for tinkle, tinkle; some day they will make the Bechstein sing.”
“They won’t – ever,” I said hopelessly.
“What else do you do, beside tinkle, tinkle?”
“You mean lessons? We have arithmetic and grammar and history and geography and French. I like history best.”
“Not French?”
“The verbs are dull, but I quite l
ike French conversation. We have it twice a week.”
Charles nodded and began to speak French . . . at least I supposed it must be French, but to me the stream of sound issuing from his lips might have been Dutch or Turkish or Chinese.
“That isn’t the kind of French we have at school,” I told him.
“But there is only one kind of French. The French that is spoken in France!”
He was looking at me in such bewilderment that I began to giggle feebly.
“What is this?” asked Charles. “Surely the reason for learning a language is to converse with people?”
I nodded again. “It’s no good at all,” I agreed. “It’s worse than tinkle, tinkle. I suppose you speak German too?”
“It is my native language.”
He rose and strolled over to the piano; it had a fascination for him.
“Please play,” I said.
“I shall sing you a little German song about spring coming to the mountains and about a very beautiful young girl gathering wild flowers.”
He was still playing and singing to me when mother came back from church. She tried the glass door; but it was shut so I got up and let her in.
Charles stopped in the middle of a song and rose and bowed. “I hope this is not presumption, Mrs. Morris?”
“Father told him he could,” I murmured.
She held out her hand and smiled. “It’s delightful; please come and play whenever you feel inclined.”
“That would be too frequently, Mrs. Morris, but I will come sometimes.”
“You must stay to lunch,” declared mother. Then a slightly anxious look appeared on her face and she glanced at the clock. (I knew she was trying to remember what we were having for lunch.)
“How kind!” exclaimed Charles. “I should like to do so very much. Perhaps another day, when you are not otherwise engaged, you and Sarah will be my guests in a hotel at Oxford. It is called The Mitre and is a very respectable place.”
“Do you really want us?” asked mother in surprise.
“But naturally! It would be very strange to invite you if I did not want you to come. I hope you will accept my invitation?”
Mother was looking a little doubtful. She said, “It’s very kind of you, Charles, but the bus takes an hour and a half——”
“I could meet you at Larchester if it would be more convenient. We could lunch at the Golden Hind.”
“That would be lovely,” mother declared. “You’d enjoy it too, wouldn’t you, Sarah? We could get an early bus and do some shopping.”
“When will you come?” asked Charles.
It wasn’t easy to arrange a day for the expedition: the Work Party met on Friday afternoons; Saturday morning was set aside for the flowers in church; on Monday the flowers had to be cleared up and the church tidied; there was a choir practice on Tuesday evening . . .
“But, Mother, we could be back in time for that!” I exclaimed.
“I like to practise the psalms before they come.”
“What about Wednesday, Mrs. Morris?” suggested Charles.
“Wednesday!” cried mother. “Oh, no, Wednesday is absolutely hopeless.”
“Hopeless?” asked Charles, in bewilderment.
“The Bishop is coming.”
“Oh, dear! Then Wednesday is indeed without hope.”
“Tuesday,” I said firmly. “You needn’t practise the psalms, just this once.”
She sighed. “Well, perhaps not . . . just this once.”
“It is to be Tuesday?” asked Charles, in doubtful tones.
“Yes,” I said. “We’ll meet you at the Golden Hind on Tuesday at one o’clock unless something frightful happens to prevent us. That’s right, isn’t it, Mother?”
“Yes, dear,” said mother meekly, and she hastened away to talk to Minnie about food.
“I am learning all the time,” said Charles, smiling. “I am learning that it is not an easy job to be the wife of an English priest.” He chuckled and added, “I am beginning to wonder how it is possible for a parish to be properly administered without the help of a wife.”
“It must be difficult,” I agreed. Then I ran to see if mother wanted me to lay the table for lunch.
*
Father enjoyed talking to Charles. While we were having lunch they talked of life at Oxford.
“When I was there I played cricket,” said father.
“I have played cricket,” said Charles. “It was only once – they did not ask me twice. It was like this, Mr. Morris: they were having a friendly game and they wanted another man. I told them I did not know how to play cricket but they said it was easy . . . and they all gave me instructions which made it more difficult. For a long time it was not my turn but I watched what they did. I saw that the batsman hit the ball and ran quickly to the other end. Then it was my turn so I hit the ball as hard as I could and ran. ‘Go back!’ they shouted. I saw, then, that I had hit the ball too hard, it had trickled over the edge of the field, so I went back and waited for the next ball. Alas, the next ball bounced in a very strange way so I missed it altogether – but it did not hit the stumps. I went forward to see what had made the ball bounce like that . . . it might have hit a stone. Then I looked round and saw that the man behind the stumps had picked up the ball; he knocked off the two little bits of stick and said, ‘Howzzat?’ – and the umpire said ‘Out.’ But why?” asked Charles with a bewildered air. “Why was I ‘out’? The ball did not hit the stumps, I am sure of that.” He sighed and added, “They were all very kind; they thumped me on the back; one man said, ‘Bad luck, old chap! You’ll know better next time.’ Another man said, ‘You’ve made four, that’s not so dusty.’”
“Not bad for a first attempt,” agreed father, laughing.
“But, Mr. Morris, how had I made four runs when I had not run at all?”
Father tried to explain and offered to lend Charles a book about cricket.
“It is no use,” said Charles sadly. “Several people have lent me books . . . but the books do not explain the essential principles. It seems that you must know all about the game before you read the books. How did you begin to learn cricket, Mr. Morris?”
“I don’t know – really,” replied father thoughtfully. “I can remember playing with my father in the garden when I was about six years old.”
“Then it is quite hopeless and I shall not bother about it any more,” declared Charles.
After lunch, when we were having coffee in the drawing-room, the conversation took a more serious turn. Mother had gone to a Red Cross meeting and I was sitting quietly on the sofa.
“I want to ask you something,” said father. “The other day when you were here you spoke of civilisation as a crust; you likened it to the pastry crust of a pie, concealing a seething mass of violence and barbarism. The metaphor has haunted me, Charles.”
“I am sorry, sir, I realised that my words had distressed you.”
“Yes, I was distressed,” said father with a sigh. “But we shouldn’t shut our eyes to trouble. I didn’t want to pursue the subject at the time because I knew it would upset my wife. Her only brother was killed in the retreat from Mons so she dreads war and everything to do with it. If there were to be another war – which God forbid – it would be even more terrible and our sons would be in the thick of it.”
Charles was silent.
“That’s what you meant, wasn’t it?”
“If things go on as they are doing there will be another war, but that does not mean your sons will be fighting.”
“I think it does, Charles. You can’t keep wars in watertight compartments nowadays. It’s that man, Hitler, of course. We won the war but the peace has been mismanaged; we should have made friends with Germany.”
“Perhaps even now it may be averted.”
“But you think it unlikely?”
“My father knows more of these things that I; he thinks war is inevitable. He detests the man Hitler and his treatment of the Jews. My father is not care
ful what he says. He is a baron; he has big estates; he has enemies in high positions.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is very dangerous,” said Charles in a low voice. “My brother and I have tried to warn him but he is fearless and speaks his mind openly. Oh, well, it is useless to talk of it.”
“I must go,” said father, glancing at his watch. “I have some visiting to do this afternoon, but you needn’t hurry away. Perhaps you’d like to go for a walk with Sarah and come back to tea?”
“I could take you up to the woods,” I suggested.
They both turned and looked at me. I think they had forgotten I was there.
Father said, “Better not mention our conversation to Mother.”
“No, of course not; she would worry.” Oddly enough I wasn’t worried. The last war had been over before I was born so it was just a legend to me – as far off as the campaigns of Marlborough. I couldn’t imagine a war with guns firing and people trying to kill each other; it was utterly incredible to a child who had led a sheltered life in the peaceful English countryside.
Charles and I set off together. We went through the garden and climbed the wall into the field. I showed Charles the oak-tree and the Druids’ stones and told him what Mr. Rickaby had said about them . . . and he was very interested. Then I told him that Willy and I had found a hedge-sparrow’s nest with a cuckoo in it.
“Willy knows about birds,” I said. “We come up to the woods quite often and watch them.”
There was no sunshine; it was a silver day. As we climbed the steep path to the woods Charles said, “There is a softness here that we do not see in my country.”
“Tell me about your country.”
“I wonder what you would think of it, Sarah. I told you about Schloss Roethke, did I not?”
“It’s a castle?”
“Yes, a castle with towers and a path along the top of the walls. In the old days a man was always there to watch for the approach of enemies. For hundreds of years it has belonged to my family so, although it is too large to be comfortable, I am very fond of it. The Schloss stands upon a cliff at the side of a stream where the water falls over a rock into a deep pool. All round there are woods and farms which belong to my father; the people belong to us too.”
Sarah Morris Remembers Page 6