‘A stirrup-cup then,’ she said gaily, returning with two full glasses. ‘To the memory of Thomas Bun.’
‘Bohun,’ said Oliver firmly.
Miss Harvey realised that she had made a false step and that the magic was less potent.
‘I only said Bun to provoke you,’ she said laughingly, and moved nearer to Oliver who felt paralysis creeping upon him. ‘The firelight is so lovely,’ she continued, ‘and that faery sound of the lapping flames.’
If there was one word Oliver hated it was faery, especially if people pronounced it in that affected way; and yet her proximity was very pleasant. She stood very still, very silent, very close to him. An unseen power seemed to him to be compelling him to put his arm round her, thus imperilling the whole idea of Platonic Love, when the mantelpiece, suddenly remembering that it was deliberately made so narrow that one could not safely put anything on it, cold-shouldered the glass which fell with a tinkling crash on to the hearth. The front doorbell rang. Almost simultaneously Hilda opened the door, and saying, ‘I suppose you’re in, Miss Frances,’ turned up all the lights. Oliver felt rather relieved and rather annoyed. To be perfectly truthful he would have liked the moment of temptation to last for ever with a special clause to safeguard him against committing himself, but as this was impossible the next best thing was to be out of temptation. Hilda let Captain Barclay and Lucy into the room and shut the door on them.
‘Oh, hullo,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ve got a little grain for your hens and Tom came to dinner a bit early so I said we’d bring it you in his car. Hilda’s got it. We’re going to fetch Lettice on the way back. I’ll tell you what, Frances, someone’s broken a glass in the fireplace.’
Miss Harvey said it didn’t matter a bit and offered the newcomers drinks, but both refused, Lucy because she had a gentlemanly preference for dry sherry or nothing, Captain Barclay because, as he quite matter-of-factly said, he never drank cocktails just before driving on a cold night and it was going to freeze before morning. Everyone showed a tendency to linger, yet had nothing to say and Miss Harvey’s handsome face took on a rather bored and sulky look when Hilda came in and said was she to put the dinner back or not. Without waiting for an answer she shut the door hard and retired to her kitchen. The guests took the hint and prepared to go.
‘Are you sure you are all right alone?’ said Oliver to Miss Harvey, not that he was really at all anxious but he felt he owed her some sentimental amends for the scene so rudely disturbed.
‘Of course,’ said Miss Harvey almost snappishly. ‘I’m always alone while Geoffrey is on duty, and Hilda is here and Colonel Propert next door.’ Then thinking she had gone too far she relented and said to Oliver, her fine eyes downcast, ‘Some day one will really be able to talk, one hopes.’
Oliver said yes one did hope so and pressed her deliberately unresponsive hand. No wish to encircle her waist revived in him, but he thought with pleasure that they would meet again tomorrow at the office.
‘Don’t come out,’ he said, ‘it is too cold for you.’
Miss Harvey, who was not intending to come out, threw a touching look of gratitude towards him and shut the door on her party.
‘Oh my goodness gracious,’ said Miss Harvey aloud to herself in a voice of exasperation. ‘And for the duration probably. And that ghastly Bun! One might as well be dead. Oh, Lord, what a set!’
It was certainly very cold outside. Oliver’s little car, a ramshackle relic which did more miles to the gallon than most, and had a window that permanently wouldn’t wind up, cut but a poor appearance beside Captain Barclay’s just pre-war car. To be truthful, it cut no appearance at all at the moment, owing to the blackout, but Captain Barclay knew its face well and had once experienced its draught.
‘How would it be,’ he said, ‘if you take Lucy straight back, Oliver? She’ll want to change. And I’ll go round by the stables and pick Lettice up. It’s getting a bit late.’
Though Lucy was much attached to Captain Barclay she saw the cogency of this reasoning, so she got into Oliver’s car, slammed the door three times, which was the only way to make it shut, slanted her legs well away from the gear handle which trespassed over the passenger’s seat, and they drove off, Captain Barclay following. He turned into the stable yard, dismounted, went up the steep stair and walked in. There was a good deal of noise in the sitting-room which turned out to be Diana and Clare in blue dressing-gowns having a treat of their supper by the fire at a small table.
‘Bikky,’ said Clare, holding up her biscuit.
‘By Jove, yes,’ said Captain Barclay.
‘Clare can’t say biskwit,’ said Diana scornfully. ‘Tell us about Sultan.’
This was an epic, told in instalments whenever Captain Barclay met the young ladies, about a pony he had when he was little. Having exhausted the catalogue of the real things it had done, such as scraping him off against a wall and running away with him into the middle of the fastest twenty minutes the Hunt had ever had and getting cursed by the Master with more than human ferocity, he had rashly carried his tale into foreign parts and Sultan was at present in Germany, eating a German soldier every night and hiding in barns and forests by day. The etiquette of the story demanded copious illustrations which were supplied by the listeners, especially by Diana who had a very fluent pencil and always knew what her own drawings meant. Nurse came graciously in and said was it for Mrs Watson because she was expecting Mr Oliver and not to make all that noise. Captain Barclay said he was instead of Mr Oliver and not to hurry Mrs Watson, so nurse got pencils and paper for the little girls and Captain Barclay went on with his story. Just as Sultan had eaten a very fat German general Lettice came in.
‘I am sorry I am not Oliver,’ said Captain Barclay, ‘for I gather it would have given more satisfaction to Nurse, but he has taken Lucy back to change and I said I’d fetch you.’
Lettice nearly said, That is almost as good as dropping your gloves behind the radiator, but felt the doubtful taste of such a remark in time and only smiled. The same romantic coincidence had occurred to Captain Barclay who likewise had thought it better unsaid. Straws showing the prevailing wind.
‘What a nice party this is,’ said Captain Barclay.
‘I rather wish we hadn’t to go to the Hall.’
Lettice said she was afraid there would be nothing to eat if they stayed, but managed to imply by her voice that except for the conventions she would starve very happily.
‘Well, goodbye,’ said Captain Barclay.
Diana said goodbye-and-thank-you-for-the-lovely-story all in one breath. Clare, a true woman, pointed a fat finger at herself and said, ‘New Dressingham.’
‘What on earth does she mean?’ said Captain Barclay.
‘It’s her new dressing-gown,’ said Lettice, surprised at his denseness. ‘Do you like them?’
‘Rather,’ said Captain Barclay, looking at the two blue figures. ‘But there’s a something wanting. When we were little we all had red flannel dressing-gowns.’
‘So did we,’ said Lettice, ‘and the children did begin with red, but Nurse said Sally Pomfret’s children were having blue and so I had to get the new ones to please her. But they look very nice.’
She hugged her offspring. Captain Barclay wiped their milky mouths with their feeders and kissed them. Nurse materialised and said she would have a fine time getting them to bed after all the excitement, but the remark was purely conventional to keep employers in their places.
‘I had a letter from my mother this morning,’ said Captain Barclay as they drove up. ‘She enjoyed your visit awfully and so did the girls.’
Lettice was gratified. She too had enjoyed the visit. There had been a kind welcome, a warm house, good food and Mrs Barclay had taken her to several working-parties at handsome houses where she usually found some ramification of relationship that made a link. Two of the Misses Barclay had been home on leave and, apart from their extreme competence, which rather frightened her, had been very pleasant, though obviously har
dly knowing who she was.
‘Mother has the house for her life,’ said Captain Barclay suddenly, ‘but she always said she’d turn out if I got married.’
Lettice said, ‘Oh,’ and then they stopped at the side door. In the drawing-room they found Mrs Marling, Lucy, Oliver and Miss Bunting. Mrs Marling said they wouldn’t wait for Mr Marling as he had come in late, so they went down again to the dining-room. Soup had just been put on the table when the host entered. Looking round with distaste at his family and guest he sat down heavily and said, Why the dickens couldn’t someone shut the door. Oliver got up and shut it.
‘I didn’t say slam it,’ said Mr Marling. ‘What’s this? Soup, eh? Oh, all right. Might as well eat it I suppose. Daresay we shan’t have soup much longer.’
‘I heard from my mother this morning, sir,’ said Captain Barclay.
‘Didn’t know you had one,’ said Mr Marling, pushing his plate away. ‘What’s all this pepper doin’ in the soup, Amabel?’
‘I don’t know, dear,’ said Mrs Marling. ‘Tom didn’t say brother, he said mother.’
‘Mother, eh? Then why couldn’t he say so?’ said Mr Marling. ‘What’s this, pigeon?’
‘It’s the ones I shot,’ said Lucy.
‘Won’t be any to shoot before long and nothing to shoot ’em with,’ said Mr Marling. ‘They’ll be takin’ our guns away and sendin’ them to Russia. Time I was dead. And you know, Amabel, I can’t eat pigeons. Why isn’t there some beef?’
‘The servants had it for their Sunday dinner, Papa,’ said Lettice. ‘They seemed to expect it. And these are very nice pigeons. You know you ate three last time we had them done like this.’
‘Well, what’s all this about your mother?’ said Mr Marling, switching the conversation to less controversial ground.
‘Nothing, sir,’ said Captain Barclay. ‘She’s very well and enjoyed Lettice’s visit very much and sends all sorts of remembrances to you.’
‘Handsome girl she was,’ said Mr Marling, softening. ‘Here, can’t anyone give me another pigeon? All want the old man to starve I suppose. Very handsome she was. We had the galop together at the end of the Hunt Ball the year she married, and I wouldn’t mind havin’ another with her.’
‘I’m sure she’d love it, sir,’ said Captain Barclay.
‘Well, there won’t be any more galops, or Hunt Balls, or Hunts I daresay,’ said Mr Marling relapsing. ‘We’ll all have to turn out of our places and see them made into County Asylums. Government’s cuttin’ its own throat with these taxes. Enough to make a feller cut his own throat. Well, I’ll soon be dead, that’s one comfort. Bill won’t be able to keep the place up. No one’ll be able to keep their places up. Your mother won’t be able to keep her place up,’ he said, turning suddenly upon Captain Barclay.
‘Well, so long as we kill Hitler it doesn’t matter,’ said Lucy loudly.
‘Can’t hear a word you say,’ said Mr Marling. ‘What’s this? You know I can’t abide slops, Amabel.’
‘It isn’t slops, Papa dear, it’s a cheese soufflé,’ said Oliver, very clearly.
‘All the same thing,’ said Mr Marling, helping himself very unfairly to most of the brown top of the soufflé and scraping out the crisp bits that stick to the side. ‘What was Lucy sayin’?’
‘I said it doesn’t matter what happens so long as we kill Hitler,’ said Lucy at the top of her voice.
‘All right, all right, no need to shout as if I was deaf,’ said Mr Marling. ‘Kill Hitler, eh? Well, we’ve got to get him first. Why the devil don’t the Government send an expeditionary force to the Continent? Make another front. Plenty of old fellers like me that were abroad all the last war. We could tell ’em what to do. But it’s all these young fellers, and the jacks-in-office at Whitehall. Enough to break a man’s heart. Why aren’t you havin’ port, Barclay? It’s not poisoned here like the stuff you get everywhere now.’
cNo thanks, sir,’ said Captain Barclay.
‘I’ll have some more then,’ said Mr Marling. ‘Are we goin’ to sit here all night, Amabel?’
Oliver and Lettice exchanged glances of amused despair. Papa had given a fine exhibition of Olde Englishe Squire and was now surpassing himself as Crimean General, a mood which had been known to last for three days, with a final outburst as Mutiny Veteran before he recovered. Mrs Marling said they would all go to the drawing-room. Mr Marling said they soon wouldn’t have a drawin’-room to sit in at all and he was going to write letters.
It was with some relief that the rest of the party arranged themselves in the drawing-room. Miss Bunting, who had rather frightened Captain Barclay at dinner by sitting beside him in complete silence, took up her usual position just outside the circle. Mrs Marling said she was extremely sorry, but they were out of cigarettes for the moment. Oliver and Captain Barclay, by an unfortunate coincidence, had empty cases. Miss Bunting got up, went out, and came back with three small packets of cigarettes.
‘Abdulla? Players? Three Castles?’ she said, offering them in a lordly way.
‘Good Lord, Bunny,’ said Oliver, ‘I didn’t know you were a hoarder.’
‘Nor am I one,’ said Miss Bunting. ‘I ask Mr Hobson at the shop for a few whenever I go in and he always lets me have some. I like to have something to offer to the Tommies when I come across them.’
This unexpected side of Miss Bunting filled her hearers with respectful surprise. They somehow did not associate her with the rank and file.
‘Lord Lundy’s youngest boy ran away in the last war and enlisted in the Guards when he was under age,’ said Miss Bunting, looking before her as if she saw a picture. ‘His father was very angry. He said he would not use his parental powers to get him out of the army, but he would not see him. Patrick came by the servants’ entrance the night before he embarked and all the family were away, so I received him and made him some tea in my room. He had no cigarettes, poor boy, and I stole some of his lordship’s and two of his best cigars. When Patrick was killed I felt the only thing I could do was to remember what cigarettes mean to Our Boys. It is just the same in this war and Mr Hobson is very obliging.’
‘Well, it is very kind of you to include us among your boys, Miss Bunting,’ said Captain Barclay. ‘And if you’ll allow me to contribute some cigarettes to your store I shall be very grateful.’
‘I wish I had said that,’ said Oliver, frankly envious.
‘You couldn’t, Oliver. You are not, through no fault of your own, in uniform,’ said Miss Bunting. ‘But you may contribute.’
‘Serves me right for being noble,’ said Oliver, and everyone laughed and the slight tension was relieved.
‘I’m afraid, Tom, it wasn’t a very amusing dinner,’ said Mrs Marling. ‘William isn’t quite himself today.’
‘I know what it is!’ said Oliver. ‘Papa isn’t being not quite himself today; he is being excessively himself. Is it the super-tax?’
Mrs Marling said it was and not a very nice one.
‘It has never been nice as long as I can remember,’ said Lucy. ‘Papa always makes a most frightful fuss and says we will all be in the workhouse, but we aren’t.’
‘When I was in charge of the schoolroom at Lord Bolton’s – I mean, naturally, the Marquess of Bolton,’ said Miss Bunting with reverence in her voice, ‘not Earl Bolton —’ she added with a faint accent of disgust.
‘He wore a pair of leather boots and cambric under-clothing,’ said Oliver reminiscently.
‘— the Income Tax was only one and sixpence in the pound, but we all suffered very much. It was at Bolton Grange that I acquired the habit of never speaking at dinner on the night after the Budget. The marchioness and all the family did the same. It annoyed the marquess, but if we spoke at all his language became so violent that it was not fit for young people to hear. That,’ she added graciously to Captain Barclay, ‘is why I did not speak to you during dinner. But I should very much like to hear about Mrs Barclay. I remember seeing her once at Bolton Grange as a young married wom
an when I brought Lady Iris and Lady Phyllis down to the drawing-room after dinner. I think she only had one child then.’
Captain Barclay said that would probably be his eldest sister as she was the first.
The evening passed very pleasantly and dully. Lucy gave a spirited and unwanted account of how she was organising a salvage collection, all the ladies knitted, and Oliver played Patience. As he played, the Queen of Spades, a hard-faced woman at the best with her face on one side, somehow reminded him of Miss Harvey’s expression when Lucy and Captain Barclay had come in, and he wished it hadn’t. Much as he was attracted by Miss Harvey, he was also a little frightened of her. He had distinctly felt her luring him in the drawing-room by firelight and had not disliked the feeling, but he was not quite sure how far he wanted it to go. To see her daily was an agreeable stimulant and the repeated dose had not palled, but the thunder on her brow had surprised him uncomfortably. He hoped it would not happen again, yet he hoped it would, for it was so unbelievable that he would like to be convinced of what his eyes had seen. It must have been a mistake, a trick of the firelight, or she was tired. His eyes began to ache, so he shuffled all his cards together and got up.
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