Mr. Birkett had also neglected his guests for various old Oxford friends, mostly in public life. As they too talked of their summer plans one or two said that it looked like trouble with the railway men again and how annoying it would be to be held up at Dover on one’s way back from the Continent if there were a strike.
‘Strikes are a nuisance,’ said the President of St. Barabbas, ‘but nothing to the nuisance we shall have if there did happen to be any trouble. The Government want to take over part of the College for the Divorce Court. We should have to send half our men to St. Jude’s and it will upset the work greatly, besides making us a laughing stock. And Judges expect much more comfort than we can give. They expect bathrooms!’ said the President with the just indignation of one who had lived on a flat tin bath ever since he first came up to Oxford.
‘The only man who is going to enjoy it is Crawford at Lazarus,’ said Mr. Fanshawe, the Dean of Paul’s.
‘He was my predecessor here,’ said Mr. Birkett.
‘I hate a crank,’ said Mr. Fanshawe dispassionately, ‘and Crawford cranks about Russia till most of us are thoroughly ashamed of him. He’s got a queer lot at Lazarus now, all doing Modern Greats and thinking they understand politics. He has managed to get the promise of the Institute of Ideological Interference being billeted on Lazarus, if there is any question of its leaving London. They are going to bring a lot of typists, and his men will have to go to St. Swithin’s. Do them good,’ said Mr. Fanshawe with gloomy pleasure. ‘St. Swithin’s are the hardest drinking college in Oxford just now and they’ll lead Crawford’s flock astray all right. I don’t think any of this is likely to happen, but I must say I rather hope there will be some evacuating from London, just to serve Crawford right. Never ought to have got the Mastership. Ha!’
‘You should hear my butler, Simnet, on Crawford,’ said Mr. Birkett. ‘He was a Scout at Lazarus but resigned because he didn’t hold with the Master’s political and social views.’
As he spoke Simnet suddenly materialised at his side and murmured, ‘Mrs. Birkett says The Cake, sir.’
‘You were on No. 7 staircase at Lazarus, weren’t you?’ said Mr. Fanshawe, whose knowledge and memory of Oxford characters were unique. ‘I’ll have a word with you later.’
The guests were then swept into the dining-room where Lieutenant Fairweather and Rose were standing by the cake. Mr. Tozer was plying the champagne nippers with demoniac fury, his satellites, reinforced by the Headmaster’s staff and some of the servants from the Houses, were already speeding about the room with trays of glasses. Simnet corralling by the power of his eye the most distinguished of the guests, served them himself. A photographer from the Barchester Chronicle suddenly elbowed his way to the front. Lieutenant Fairweather drew his sword, and offered the hilt to Rose. The flashlight went off. Rose, her hand guided by her husband, gave a loud shriek and cut into the cake. The photographer disappeared. Mr. Tozer then fell upon the cake with a kind of caterer’s hacksaw and dismembered it with the rapidity of lightning. Healths were drunk, Simnet produced unending supplies of champagne for Mr. Tozer, and Mrs. Birkett suddenly wished it were all over.
‘How are you bearing up, Amy?’ said Mrs. Morland at her elbow.
Mrs. Birkett said as well as could be expected, and she must get Rose away to change soon.
A young man in rather disreputable clothes approached Mrs. Birkett with a glass of champagne.
‘You ought to drink this,’ he said gravely, offering it to Mrs. Birkett. ‘It will do you good.’
‘Tony!’ Mrs. Birkett exclaimed, suddenly recognising Mrs. Morland’s youngest son.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ said his mother.
‘I wasn’t,’ said Tony, ‘because I was mending my bike, but as I got it mended I thought I’d come, but the pedal came off at the level crossing so I left it at a shop to be mended.’
‘Let me know if you’d like me to fetch you and the bicycle from anywhere on my way back, darling,’ said Mrs. Morland.
‘It would be too complicated,’ said Tony. ‘If I had a car of my own, Mamma, it would save you a lot of trouble.’
‘And give me a lot of trouble,’ said Mrs. Morland with some spirit. ‘Well, good-bye, darling. It was so nice to see you.’
Tony, divining that his mother might kiss him, sketched a salute to the two ladies and with gentle determination forced his way to the thickest of the crush where Lieutenant and Mrs. Fairweather and the bridesmaids were to be found.
‘Many happy returns of the day,’ he said politely to Rose. ‘Hullo, John. Hullo, Geoff. Hullo, Geraldine. Hullo, Lydia.’
‘Come and stay with us when you’re out of camp,’ Lydia yelled above the tumult.
‘Can’t,’ said Tony. ‘My Mamma will take me abroad.’
‘There’ll be a railway strike and you’ll never get home,’ shouted Lydia. ‘I heard someone say so.’
‘It all comes of listening to the wireless,’ said Tony. ‘You ought to learn to think for yourself.’ And before Lydia could counter this accusation he had slipped away.
Mrs. Birkett now approached her married daughter and said it was time to change. Rose, who was vastly enjoying a flirtation with all her husband’s and her brother-in-law’s friends, said in rather a whining voice Need she really?
‘Indeed you need, my girl,’ said her husband, looking at his wrist-watch. ‘Half an hour. At half-past four, you’ll find me clean and sober at the front door, so get up steam.’
‘All right, angel,’ said Rose and followed her mother from the room.
Lieutenant Fairweather, accompanied by a large body of select friends, went to Mr. Birkett’s dressing-room to change his uniform and the crowd began to disperse. Mr. Birkett, who was acting host while his wife was with Rose, stood and shook hands with his guests. He was tired and felt as if he were somehow apart from the scene, and as if for a hundred years people had shaken his hand and said they would be seeing him when term began again unless anything happened, though of course it wouldn’t.
Presently only the near friends of the two families and some uninteresting relations were left and then Lieutenant Fairweather came down with his bodyguard. Captain Fairweather put the bridegroom’s suitcase into his car, which was already loaded with Rose’s luggage. Simnet brought more champagne into the hall where the remains of the party were now waiting for the bride. The school clock chimed two quarters. Lieutenant Fairweather went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted ‘Rose!’
Even as he spoke his wife came downstairs in a ravishing silk coat and skirt, clasping the two depraved dolls in one arm and the plush panda in the other.
‘Here, Geraldine,’ said Lieutenant Fairweather, ‘take those dolls.’
‘Oh, John— —’ Rose began.
‘And give me that other thing,’ said her bridegroom, laying hands on the panda.
‘John, don’t be so dispiriting,’ said Rose.
‘What on earth have you got inside him?’ asked Lieutenant Fairweather, and without waiting for an answer he unzipped the panda’s back and the ocarina fell out.
‘You might take that coco-nut thing away,’ said Lieutenant Fairweather to Simnet, who was in deep converse with Mr. Fanshawe. Simnet was so surprised that he stooped and picked it up.
‘Catch!’ continued the Lieutenant, tossing the panda to Lydia. ‘And now say good-bye, Rose.’
He then embraced his mother-in-law very kindly, kissed all the bridesmaids and shook hands with his father-in-law.
‘Don’t you worry,’ he said. ‘I’m going to look after Rose with all my might and all my heart. Thank you all. Bless you all. Come along, Rose.’
Rose hugged her parents tempestuously, and kissed everyone in a careless way. Mrs. Birkett, who could hardly bear it now that the moment of parting had come, saw that Rose’s lovely eyes were brimming.
‘John!’ she said, laying her hand on her son-in-law’s arm and looking towards Rose.
‘It’s absolutely all right,’ said he very kin
dly. ‘Anything wrong, Rose?’
‘No,’ said Rose, bursting into tears. ‘It’s only because of leaving Mummy and Daddy, but I do love you better than anything in the WORLD, darling.’
In proof of which she flung herself sobbing into her husband’s arms.
‘That’s absolutely all right,’ said he, patting her back. ‘And now we’d better go.’
He took Rose’s arm. Her tears ceased as if by magic, leaving her face unravaged. On the bottom step she suddenly turned and ran back to her mother.
‘Mummy, did they put my little blue suitcase with my bathing things in the car,’ she asked earnestly, ‘because we’re going to bathe to-morrow if there’s time.’
Geraldine said it was all right. Rose ran down the steps again and got into the car. With a frightful noise it leapt forward and the married couple whirled away down the drive. The younger guests who had been making up parties for cinemas or dancing went off, taking Delia Brandon and Octavia Crawley with them. Mr. Fanshawe said he had much enjoyed his talk with Simnet and had got the low-down on Crawford, and would now walk to Southbridge station and take the next train that came, which he found more restful than being driven by his wife.
‘Come and sit down, Amy,’ said Mrs. Morland, who was staying to dinner. ‘You look tired.’
‘I am,’ said Mrs. Birkett. ‘Oh, must you go, Dr. Crawley? It has been so good of you to come. I think Rose will be very happy.’
‘I couldn’t help hearing her last words to you,’ said the Dean. ‘They reminded me so curiously of a story my grandfather used to tell about the late Lady Hartletop. It was when she married Lord Dumbello, before he succeeded to the Marquisate. They are a kind of connection of ours, you know. My Aunt Grace married Major Grantly who was Lady Hartletop’s brother.’
‘But it was a moiré antique she wanted, wasn’t it,’ said Mrs. Morland, ‘not a bathing dress.’
The Dean laughed and said good-bye.
Dinner was very quiet. As Geraldine had gone back with Lydia to dine at the Carters’, taking with her Captain Fairweather who wanted to see Bobbie Carter in his bath before going back to camp, only the Birketts and Mrs. Morland were there to eat the crumbs of the wedding feast. Mr. Tozer had cleared away with his usual thoroughness and the dining-room was quite habitable again. Simnet with great tact had put away the unopened champagne, feeling that it would remind his employers too vividly of their loss and had, without waiting for orders, brought up a very good claret under whose soothing influence everyone relaxed. Mrs. Morland spoke of her plans for going to France with Tony unless anything happened.
‘Everyone has said that to-day,’ said Mrs. Birkett wearily. ‘Oh, Henry, who was Gristle that rang you up this morning? I’ve been meaning to ask you all day.’
‘Gristle?’ said the Headmaster. ‘Not Gristle; Bissell. He is the Headmaster of the Hosiers’ Boys Foundation School. If there is any evacuating of the London schools,’ he continued, addressing himself to Mrs. Morland, ‘we are taking them in, damn them. I’m sorry; the day has been trying. But it will be a difficult job with the best will in the world. If anything did happen, not that I think it will, but one must be prepared, a good many of our younger masters will have to go automatically. So will my secretary.’
Mrs. Morland did not stay late. Before she went she said to Mrs. Birkett:
‘I was wanting to ask you, Amy. If there is any trouble, which I shall not encourage by talking about it, my publisher Adrian Coates and his wife, George Knox’s daughter, you know, rather want to take my house. I don’t suppose there’ll be any air raids, but if there were Adrian wants Sybil and the three children to be in the country. Tony will be at Oxford, so I wondered if it would be any use to you if I came to you for a bit, as a secretary, or a P.G., or anything you like. But only if you’d like it. Think about it.’
‘I shan’t think at all,’ said Mrs. Birkett, ‘I’d love to have you. You can P.G. if you’d feel happier and have Rose’s room to write in. Bill, wouldn’t it be nice if Laura came to us in the autumn if things get difficult?’
‘Very nice indeed,’ said Mr. Birkett warmly. ‘And there isn’t another parent, past, present, or future, that I’d say that to. Do come, Laura.’
Mrs. Morland stared into vacancy and took a deep breath.
‘I am not superstitious,’ she said firmly, ‘and though I don’t believe in encouraging things by talking about them, it is silly not to face facts. If there is a war, I will come to you. There!’
‘I always said you saw things clearly,’ said Mrs. Birkett. ‘You can tell the truth better than anyone I know. If there is a war, come to us.’
‘And now let it do its worst,’ said Mrs. Morland heroically but irrelevantly, and so took herself away.
‘I still don’t think it can happen,’ said Mrs. Birkett to her husband, ‘but I’m glad Rose will be safely away.’
‘I don’t believe it either,’ said Mr. Birkett, ‘for to admit it would be to admit the possibility of the Hosiers’ Boys coming here, which will undoubtedly be worse than death. I think John will look after her.’
CHAPTER IV
THE STORM BEGINS TO LOWER
ON a September afternoon about six weeks later than the interesting events just described Mrs. Morland drove up to the Headmaster’s House at Southbridge and rang the front door bell. Simnet, who was prepared for her arrival, opened the door and himself removed her suitcases from the car and took them up to what, to Geraldine’s secret resentment, was still called Miss Rose’s room. Mrs. Morland went straight to Mrs. Birkett’s sitting-room where she found her friend writing letters.
‘Well, here I am,’ said Mrs. Morland dramatically.
Mrs. Birkett embraced her friend and rang for tea.
‘Tell me about everything,’ said Mrs. Morland.
‘There’s not much to tell,’ said Mrs. Birkett. ‘The Hosiers’ Boys Foundation School has decided to extend its holidays, so they don’t come here till the 25th. All the masters who were Territorials won’t be coming back of course, including Philip Winter whom we shall miss very much. Bill and Everard Carter go mad together for hours every evening, trying to work out a time-table that will satisfy Mr. Gristle, though I suppose I must remember to call him Bissell.’
Mrs. Morland, who knew that the present disturbed state of things made people rather unlike themselves, looked piercingly at her friend to see if she were going mad.
‘Gristle?’ she said.
‘That was what Geraldine said his name was when he rang up on Rose’s wedding day,’ said Mrs. Birkett, ‘and the name somehow stuck.’
‘There is a carpet-sweeper called Bissell,’ said Mrs. Morland thoughtfully, ‘and one forgets to empty the rubbish out of it and then it puts dirt on the carpet instead of taking it off. But I suppose everyone has electric ones now.’
‘He may or may not be a carpet-sweeper,’ said Mrs. Birkett, ‘but he is the Headmaster of the Hosiers’ Boys Foundation School and very, very well meaning. He is coming here for the night to talk to Bill, so you’ll see him at dinner. I have asked the Carters, so we shall be six.’
‘Where is Geraldine then?’ said Mrs. Morland.
Mrs. Birkett sighed.
‘She did First Aid last spring,’ she said, ‘and is working with Delia Brandon at the Barchester Infirmary. When I say work, they sit there all the time with nothing to do, because all the patients were turned out last week which was most depressing for all their families that thought they had got rid of them. And none of the doctors are allowed to take any private cases, so it is very dull for everybody. Better, I suppose, than having hundreds of wounded soldiers, yet in a way if one didn’t know any of the soldiers one would be glad to think of the nurses and doctors being employed.’
Mrs. Morland felt this question too difficult for her and asked after Rose. Mrs. Birkett said proudly that she had written by every mail and was loving Las Palombas and very happy, and offered to show Mrs. Morland some of her letters. Mrs. Morland with great kindness ac
cepted the offer, but her kindness was not unduly tried, for Rose’s large scrawling hand, though it covered a great deal of paper, had nothing particular to impart except that Las Palombas was marvellous which she spelt with one ‘1’, and the language a bit dispiriting and Mummy and Daddy must come out and see her as soon as they could and she supposed the war must be a bit dispiriting and sent tons and tons of love. Mrs. Morland said how nice the letters were and they gossiped about the wedding and so time passed and it was time to dress for dinner.
When Mrs. Morland got down to the drawing-room she found Mr. Birkett talking to a stranger whom she rightly guessed to be Mr. Gristle or more correctly Bissell. The Headmaster of the Hosiers’ Boys Foundation School, erroneously described by its well-wishers as one of our Lesser Public Schools, was a lean middle-sized man of about thirty-five. He wore a neat blue suit and looked as if he wasn’t sure if he ought to attack his hosts, or be on the defensive.
Mr. Birkett introduced Mrs. Morland and Mr. Bissell, who shook hands and said he was pleased to meet her, and was sorry the wife wasn’t with him as she was a great reader. Mrs. Morland, who in spite of some fifteen years of ceaseless and successful novel writing had no opinion of her own works at all, thanked Mr. Bissell warmly for his kind words and asked which of her books Mrs. Bissell liked best.
‘Not but what they are all the same,’ she added, ‘because my publisher says that pays better and I have to go on earning money for the present, because although the three elder boys have been supporting themselves for some time except of course for Christmas and birthday presents which I always make as large as I can, I still have my youngest boy at Paul’s and you know what Oxford is.’
Mr. Bissell said not being a Capittleist he didn’t.
‘But aren’t there heaps of scholarships and things?’ said Mrs. Morland. ‘I thought everyone had a Field-Marshal’s bâton in his knapsack now, only that isn’t exactly what I mean.’
Mr. Bissell said Conscription was one of Capittleism’s most unscrupulous methods of attack on its enemies, so that Mrs. Morland who could not bear unpleasantness was very thankful when Mrs. Birkett came in, closely followed by the Carters and sherry was handed, which Mr. Bissell refused. Mr. Birkett, making a shrewd guess that Mr. Bissell was refusing owing to a social code which forbids one to show enthusiasm, or indeed gratitude, for what is offered, pressed his fellow Headmaster to try the sherry, to which Mr. Bissell answered that he didn’t mind if he did take a glass, remarking as he tossed it off that Mrs. Bissell had a lady’s taste in wines and liked hers sweet and he must say he could not altogether deprecate her taste.
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