Mr Harvey said she had had a row with a countess who was head of the thés-dansants scheme and in revenge, though how exactly it was revenge he couldn’t make out, had joined the Corps Feminin and was now a Corporal.
‘I can’t quite see her in uniform,’ said Lettice.
‘No more you would if you did,’ said Mr Harvey darkly. She had, he said, forced him to give her lunch in town, when she had sketched for him very unfavourable biographies of most of her fellow-workers and boasted a great deal of her complete and successful defiance of discipline.
‘But the really awful thing is,’ said Mr Harvey, ‘that she has told her nephew to come and see us, and he rang up last night to say he was on leave with some friends, and they had got a car and would bring him to see us tomorrow. He didn’t know what time he would get to us and it’s very awkward, being Christmas Day and Hilda having most of the day off, and Frances and I were going over to Norton Park for tea.’
Lettice was so intoxicated by her passage of eyes with David that kindness overflowed and she suggested that she might help the Harveys by giving tea to the nephew and his friends.
‘That is very kind of you,’ said Mr Harvey, obviously much relieved. ‘Are you sure your people wouldn’t mind?’
Lettice considered this and said they certainly might mind, especially Papa, because he always wanted Christmas Day to be sacred to the family, who would mostly far rather go somewhere else.
‘But I’ll tell you what,’ she said, and even as she said it knew that Mr Harvey would miss the use of Lucy’s catchword and thought how David would have taken it up at once, ‘I’ve got to go down to the stables tomorrow to write some letters. The central heating is on because Ed sees to it, and I could give them tea there and perhaps get Oliver and Lucy to help, or Bunny, and then my people can’t mind. What is the nephew’s name? Is he an officer?’
Mr Harvey said Jules Duval, but as for being an officer he could not say, because French ideas about military ranks were so peculiar and they used the word officer all wrong. All he knew was that Jules, when he saw him for a moment in London, looked like a general.
‘Then he’s probably a corporal, or perhaps a sergeant,’ said Lettice. ‘They dress all wrong. But anyway I can say monsieur all the time. You don’t know who the friends are, do you?’
Mr Harvey didn’t, and as the port he had so unwillingly drunk began to make him feel cross and low, his spirits and his conversation drooped. Lettice, rather bored, looked round for more entertainment. David was playing six-pack bézique with Lucy, Oliver and Miss Harvey were looking at a book together, Miss Bunting, Mrs Marling and Bill were talking family, Mr Marling was asleep. She looked for help towards Captain Barclay, but he, kind by nature, was doing his best to entertain Mrs Bill, whom the family, although they were all fond of her, often found left out of their conversations. So again she had to make the best of it, and Mr Harvey, valiantly fighting the depression that was overcoming him, told her at great length about his chances of getting back to London and sharing a flat with Peter, till she felt her face going stiff with dullness and she thought the evening would never end.
Her brother Oliver, though no one would have suspected it, had exactly the same feeling. Though Miss Harvey attracted him more than she had ever done, though she said all the right things about the volume of Dr Bohun’s sermons which he had found at the back of a shelf in a secondhand bookshop in Barchester, though her hands had lain lightly on his in turning the pages, his eyes and head made him quite stupid. The dinner, the lights, the chatter, all conspired to send twinges of pain through his head and make talking an effort. So when the game of bézique came to a noisy end with half the cards on the floor and Lucy loudly boasting that she had won eighteenpence from David, and Mr Marling woke up and saying it was high time to be in bed went off almost staggering with sleep, Oliver seized the opportunity and shut the book.
‘I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed this evening,’ said Miss Harvey getting up. ‘To be here, with your family, is one of my real joys in exile. And I am so delighted to have met your brother and his wife.’
‘Bill is a first-rate fellow,’ said Oliver, pleased by this praise, ‘and he’ll do Papa so much good. They have a lot in common and Papa likes to talk to him about the place. When the war is over we hope Bill and Mrs Bill will be here more. The children ought to know it, as this will be their home some day.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss Harvey. There was a barely perceptible pause before she said, ‘You mean your brother will come into the estate some day.’
‘I hope so,’ said Oliver. ‘It doesn’t do to think of the chance that he mightn’t.’
‘How young he looks,’ said Miss Harvey.
‘People often take me for the elder brother,’ said Oliver, ‘but it’s only because I’m a stupid crock and Bill doesn’t know what being ill means.’
Miss Harvey made no answer, but looked at him with a very beautiful expression of tender sympathy. Her eyes, like lovely pale uncut emeralds in colour, fascinated Oliver. ‘I wish,’ said Miss Harvey after a pause, ‘that this evening were not over.’
‘So do I,’ said Oliver. ‘It is the only chance of getting the creases out of my tails that I’m likely to have till next Christmas.’
‘But we shall meet again,’ said Miss Harvey, which indeed seemed probable. ‘Why not look in tomorrow after church and have a drink? Geoffrey,’ she said as her brother came towards her, ‘ask Oliver and Lettice to come in after church tomorrow and finish the sherry.’
Mr Harvey added his entreaties.
‘Oh, I say, Oliver,’ said Lucy, ‘can I use your car tomorrow, because I don’t want to use my petrol taking people to church.’
Oliver, who was used to this Dominical form of blackmail from his young sister, nodded and wished he hadn’t, for the motion made his head hurt more than ever. The Harveys bade slightly exaggerated farewells and went off.
‘I get a little tired of those young people,’ said Mrs Marling. ‘Oliver, what about bed?’ and for once Oliver was grateful for his mother’s interference and took her advice. David too said he must go.
‘One minute, David,’ said Mrs Marling. ‘I promised Cousin Emily that book of Mrs Morland’s that she lent me. Lettice, will you find it? It is in the sitting-room upstairs.’
‘Can I help you?’ said Captain Barclay, at last seeing his chance, but Lucy loudly claimed him to help her to put the presents in the children’s stockings and by their beds, and as he had promised he had to go. So Lettice went upstairs to find the book.
She had only looked in two of the places where her mother was quite certain she had put it when David came in.
‘Enter villain,’ said David.
Lettice smiled at him and went on looking.
‘Cousin Amabel has just remembered that it isn’t here at all,’ said David. ‘It is in the hall, so I said I’d come and tell you.’
Lettice thanked him.
‘Don’t go yet,’ said David. ‘I have an inordinate amount to tell you. To begin with, Robert is in the Honours List. He gets a KCB and Agnes will be Lady Graham. She is very pleased because she says it will be so nice to see “presented by their mother, Lady Graham”, in The Times when the girls go to court about 1950 or so. On the other hand she likes being Mrs Robert Graham because Robert is such a beautiful name. I think she rather hoped that Robert might be created a Duke’s younger son so that she could be Lady Robert, but evidently the War Office thought otherwise.’
‘That is very nice,’ said Lettice. ‘Every one seems to be a Lord or a Sir now. One can hardly keep pace. It will just be plain Mrs Watson when I present Diana and Clare.’
‘Not so plain neither,’ said David, ‘if that was what you meant me to say.’
Lettice smiled again.
‘Hang it all, why can I not be simple and sincere?’ said David suddenly. ‘Answer: if I were it would only be affectation in me. Lettice, do you think you could consider being plain Mrs David Leslie? I can’t be
more simple and sincere than that.’
Lettice only said, ‘Oh, David.’
‘Listen, love,’ said David. ‘I am going to talk about myself and tell you what, like anything. If it is of the faintest interest to you I’ve never proposed to anyone before. A good many people have had little moonlight madnesses and thought I did, but we will forget that. I love you and like you. I don’t think I’d be Mr Murdstone to the children. My mother and Agnes would be enchanted, so would my father. I cannot think of any other reasons. If they are not enough please signify dissent in the usual manner.’
Lettice did not move, but she looked from side to side as if searching for help.
‘There does not seem to be that enthusiasm one might expect,’ said David. ‘Listen, my precious Lettice. Have I a rival?’
‘Yes,’ said Lettice.
‘Animal, vegetable – no, that is in bad taste,’ said David. ‘Is it Tom Barclay?’
‘Yes,’ said Lettice again.
‘Then bless you,’ said David. ‘Mamma and Papa and Agnes do not know, and they won’t know, so you must go on coming to Holdings, for it gives great, great pleasure. So goodbye.’
Lettice looked frightened.
‘It is not suicide,’ said David, ‘but I have a job waiting for me and can go abroad. I have no intention of getting killed. So bless you again and when I come back I hope to find you all happily settled and shall not do any Enoch Arden-ing at the window, but come in at the front door with a belated wedding present.’
‘Thank you very much, David,’ said Lettice in a small voice.
‘Well, I have offered you free from stain courage and faith, and I am reluctantly compelled to admit vain faith and courage vain,’ said David. ‘But I still like you very much.’
‘So do I,’ said Lettice. ‘But I do truly think I would be too dull for you.’
‘Bless your heart, my pretty, you may be right, but that would have been my affair,’ said David. ‘Goodbye.’ He kissed her affectionately and she clung to him for a moment with a pleasantly mixed feeling of a little heartbreak for his disappointment and a good deal of satisfaction in a thoroughly romantic situation carried through with great propriety on both sides. David ran downstairs and Lettice went to her room, where her spirits fell a good deal and she wished more than ever that Captain Barclay were there to comfort her, for she somehow did not feel she would be dull to him.
In the large drawing-room David found Miss Bunting by herself, who told him that the other ladies had gone to bed and Bill was in the study.
‘Grouse in the gun-room,’ said David thoughtfully. ‘I’ve got Mamma’s book. Goodnight, Bunny. I’m going abroad very soon, but I shan’t be killed and I’ll send you picture postcards if the Censor allows me. Oh, Merry sent you her love and she hoped all was going well, whatever that may mean.’
‘What is it now, David?’ said Miss Bunting with a piercing look.
‘Nothing, Miss Bunting,’ said David.
‘You may have had dirty hands, but you usen’t to be untruthful,’ said Miss Bunting severely.
‘Well, to you only, Bunny,’ said David, perhaps glad to speak to a friend who knew the best and worst of him, ‘I asked Lettice to marry me, and she doesn’t feel equal to it.’
‘My poor little David,’ said Miss Bunting, looking up with unexpected tenderness at her tall ex-pupil. ‘But it would never have done.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said David. ‘You were usually right, Bunny. But it is a mortification. However, this is unmanly weakness and I must go home. Don’t let Cousin Amabel or anyone know. And one other secret for you. Robert will be knighted in the New Year Honours.’
‘That,’ said Miss Bunting, ‘is highly suitable. Bless you, David. You were always one of my favourite pupils.’
‘Good old Bunny,’ said David, and giving his old governess a parting hug he went to the back hall to put his coat on. Here he met his cousin Lucy carrying a number of parcels which were obviously going to over-balance.
‘I’ll tell you what, David,’ said Lucy. ‘You can help me with these. Tom is upstairs in the nursery listening to Nana about how awful Everleen is. She caught him while we were doing Diana’s stocking. I think Nana has a crush on him.’
‘I’ll tell you whatter,’ said David, removing a few of the parcels from Lucy’s arms and putting them on an oak chest. ‘Talking of crushes, you know Tom Barclay pretty well, don’t you?’
‘We haven’t got a crush if that’s what you mean,’ said Lucy scornfully.
‘Of course not, my girl,’ said David. ‘But will you give him a message from me? Tell him I’m so sorry I couldn’t say goodbye and I’m going abroad almost at once and my best wishes and he is to go ahead. Can you remember? That’s right. Goodbye, my love, and let who will be clever.’
He embraced her and the rest of the parcels heartily and disappeared into the night.
Lucy looked after him thoughtfully, re-collected her parcels and went upstairs.
13
When Millie Poulter arrived at the Red House on Christmas Day she found a far from Christmas spirit in the kitchen. They, said Hilda, by which sinister pronoun she meant her ex-charges and present employers, had both got up on the wrong sides of their beds this morning and were having a fine old argument last night when they got back from the Hall. Talking about going back to London they were and Miss Frances saying she dessaid she’d like living in the country and Mr Geoffrey saying please yourself, it won’t hurt me, and something about a young man not coming into the place, but I couldn’t be bothered to listen any more so I shut the kitchen door and turned the wireless on. You can have a cup of tea, Millie, and finish that bacon if you like and then you can do the bedrooms.
‘Mrs Smith had a letter from her mother in Torquay yesterday, Hilda,’ said Millie, her mouth full of bacon and tea. ‘Mrs Cox told me about it when she was stuffing the turkey. Mrs Smith read it to her when Mrs Cox took her lunch in. The lady help as lived with her mother has had a quarrel with her and the old lady wants to come and live with Mrs Smith because they had a bomb at Torquay. Mrs Cox said she wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs Smith wanted to have the Red House back.’
‘Nor no one else wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Hilda. ‘What she’s taken out of this house since we come here you wouldn’t believe it, Millie, not if I was to tell you. Mr Govern said only last week when he come in for a cup of tea that it was a fair shame. Well, Mr Govern, I said, it’s not my business and I never was one to interfere, but two of my dusters and the egg-whisk in a week with hardly so much as by your leave and as for seeing them again I’d as soon expect to see old Hitler driving a bus.’
‘I like Mr Govern,’ said Millie.
‘That’s all right, my girl,’ said Hilda, ‘but don’t you go imagining things.’
Millie giggled.
‘That Ed asked me last night,’ she said.
‘Well!’ said Hilda.
‘So I said No sauce from you, Ed Pollet,’ said Millie, continuing her artless tale, ‘and so we fixed to get married next year when Mrs Pollet gets her old-age pension. Seems I ought to register next year, but if I marry Ed I don’t get called up, see?’
‘It’s a regular nuisance all this calling-up,’ said Hilda. ‘Seems Mr Govern’s niece that does for him, the one that’s post-woman, is going into munitions, so I said I wouldn’t mind taking on the job, quite joking-like. It’ll save you coming down here every day for your cup of tea, Mr Govern, I said, so I shouldn’t wonder if I was to be married first. I saw it all in the tea-cup, first night we was here.’
‘Did you see me and Ed in the tea-cup, Hilda?’ said Millie.
But Hilda, feeling that she had allowed Millie to go too far, said, ‘Talk, talk, talk and the beds not done,’ and drove her upstairs. She then went to the dining-room to clear away the breakfast things.
It was here very plain to her that her employers were still having what she called a fine old turn-up. To keep up the fiction of an Olympian existence, free from the s
torms that rage in more humble bosoms, Mr and Miss Harvey feigned to be speaking of Mlle Duchaux’s nephew, Peter’s flat, the Board of Tape and Sealing Wax and such matters. Hilda, disappointed in her hopes of hearing them argue, delayed the clearing-away in a diabolical manner as much as possible, but finally the last crumb had been removed and she had no excuse to linger. Unwillingly she picked up the tray and went towards the door which she had left ajar, the better to be able to hook it open with her foot.
‘All right, Hilda, I’ll shut it,’ said Mr Harvey and to her great annoyance shut it firmly behind her.
‘No need to slam the door, Geoffrey,’ said Miss Harvey.
Mr Harvey said he hadn’t slammed it and she must know by now that the catch didn’t work properly unless one did, and if she wanted Hilda to be able to hear everything that was being said in the dining-room, he didn’t.
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