Cheerfulness Breaks In

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘He’s the Dean’s secretary, Sir Edmund,’ said Lydia.

  ‘Which bedroom have they given you?’ asked Sir Edmund, turning on Mr. Needham. ‘The last Dean’s secretary had a room I wouldn’t put a dog in.’

  Mr. Needham said, rather stiffly, that he had a very comfortable room on the second floor looking out over the Close.

  ‘Busman’s holiday, eh?’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Anyone heard the one o’clock news?’

  ‘Well, everyone here was here at one o’clock and we didn’t have it on, so I don’t suppose they have,’ said Mrs. Brandon, with an air of great lucidity.

  ‘Upon my word, Lavinia, you get sillier every day,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Well, I haven’t heard it either. Was over at Little Misfit at the British Legion. So we needn’t talk about it. I won’t have the wireless in my house. Never had one in the last war and won’t have one in this war. Read my Times in the morning and that’s that. Tell you what’s wrong with this war though,’ he added, looking round in a challenging way, ‘it’s not like the last one. Barsetshire Yeomanry in camp ever since the trouble began. Last time we had ’em out in France in three days and cut to pieces, by Jove, in the Retreat.’

  Everyone knew that Sir Edmund, after commanding the Barsetshire Yeomanry with distinction for two years and taking more than a father’s interest in his men, had been invalided out of the army with a permanently crippled leg, and they respected his annoyance.

  ‘We had men like Kitchener then,’ Sir Edmund continued, ‘and Beatty and Joffre. Not got them now.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t,’ said Lydia. ‘They’re all dead.’

  ‘Good thing if I was too,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Useless old man. I’d have a smack at the Boche now if I could. So’d you, young man,’ he added, suddenly rounding on Mr. Needham.

  Mr. Needham thought wildly of looking at his own collar in an appealing way, to show Sir Edmund his position, but the physical difficulties were too great.

  ‘My dear Sir Edmund,’ the Vicar protested.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about his cloth,’ said Sir Edmund angrily, although the Vicar hadn’t. ‘What’s the Church Militant for, eh? Eh, young man?’

  Mr. Needham was heard to mumble something about military chaplains and the Bishop.

  ‘Bishop of Barchester’s an old woman and we all know that,’ said Sir Edmund. ‘Never you mind him, young man.’

  Mr. Miller felt that as an unworthy son of the Church he could not listen to such subversive remarks, so although he disliked the Bishop as much as he had ever disliked anyone, he thought he ought to change the subject and reminded Sir Edmund that the following Sunday was the Day of National Prayer and he supposed the British Legion in Pomfret Madrigal would attend in full force.

  ‘Bad thing when it comes to having a Day of National Prayer,’ said Sir Edmund gloomily. ‘It’s all this Government. Wouldn’t have had one if Churchill had been Prime Minister. Or Lloyd George. Mind you I never liked the man, never trusted him, in fact I’d have had him shot, but I’m a fair-minded man and I say it shows things are in a bad way. It’s no good. I’m an old man and I don’t understand these new ways, I suppose, but it’s all beyond me.’

  The Vicar, who was really devoted to Sir Edmund and knew his ceaseless care for and interest in every corner of the parish and every family that lived there besides all the work he did in the county, felt deeply sorry for his old friend. That a good deal of his grumbling was habit he was fully aware, but he was equally aware that Sir Edmund was cruelly troubled by the changing times and could not understand that 1940 was not 1914.

  ‘Indeed, indeed, the times are troubled, Sir Edmund,’ he said, ‘but we must remember that we are all in God’s hands.’

  ‘I know we are,’ said Mrs. Brandon earnestly, laying her hand on the Vicar’s sleeve, ‘and that is just what is so perfectly dreadful.’

  This appalling truth drove everyone into a frenzy of unnecessary conversation which lasted until Sir Edmund went. The party then broke up, the Millers going back to the Vicarage for a Mothers’ Meeting and Lydia taking Mr. Needham back to Barchester. Just as she was leaving she remembered Noel Merton’s message and being a thoroughly conscientious girl gave it to Mrs. Brandon.

  ‘How nice of Mr. Merton,’ said Mrs. Brandon. ‘If he is in Intelligence perhaps he could find a job for Francis. And there is our cousin Hilary Grant, who is due to be called up about the same time and speaks Italian so well, which would be very useful if they wanted anyone who can speak Italian. Will you ask him, Lydia?’

  Lydia promised she would, took Mr. Needham aboard and set off for Barchester. Mr. Needham spoke at some length of the charm and virtues of Mrs. Brandon who, he said, was more like his idea of a saint than anyone he had ever met. Lydia listened kindly. She had given Noel’s message to Mrs. Brandon, and Mrs. Brandon had at once suggested that Noel should find jobs for her son and her cousin, and this, she didn’t quite know why, had been very soothing. Her liking for Mrs. Brandon remained undimmed, but her opinion of Mr. Needham fell slightly.

  ‘I say, Mr. Needham,’ she remarked, as they entered the Close.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t say Mr. Needham,’ said that cleric. ‘Everyone calls me Tommy.’

  ‘All right, Tommy then if you like, only of course you must say Lydia,’ said Miss Keith, ‘I suppose Octavia will be getting up soon.’

  Mr. Needham said he thought about 6 o’clock.

  ‘Then you’ll be able to see her when you’ve done your work or whatever it is you do for Dr. Crawley,’ said Lydia, determined that her friend should not suffer from Mrs. Brandon’s fatal charm.

  Mr. Needham said he sometimes went for a walk with his employer’s daughter before she had dinner and went off to her night shift. Lydia nodded approvingly, wrenched Mr. Needham’s hand in a way that reminded him of the time his wrist was broken in a Rugby match in Wales, and careered away towards Northbridge and her responsibilities.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE BISSELLS AT HOME

  IN spite of Sir Edmund’s gloomy views the Day of National Prayer passed off without incident. At Southbridge School Mr. Smith the chaplain preached to a large congregation of his own boys and the Hosiers’ Boys, doing his best to say in one and the same breath that they must go on with their work as if nothing had happened, prepare themselves earnestly for what was before them, remember that the youth of all countries held the future of the world in their hands, and certainly not forget that the youth of certain countries had been so misled by what it was now the fashion to call totalitarian methods, though he was himself old-fashioned enough to believe in the Powers of Darkness, that the world’s future must never be allowed to rest in its hands. But as everyone was used to him, no one minded.

  At the Headmaster’s House Mrs. Morland, who when she concentrated was far from unintelligent, especially about other people’s affairs, did a good deal of secretarial work for Mr. Birkett, worked away industriously at her new novel and made a good many friends in the School. To her great surprise, for she was an unassuming creature, she found that a number of the masters and the older boys were among her constant readers. This she attributed largely, and possibly with some justice, to the fact that several of her books were now in a well-known sixpenny series, but it all cheered her up. Her youngest son Tony appeared to be very happy at Oxford, her invaluable cook Stoker sent her good accounts of her house at High Rising where her publisher’s wife and children were now staying, so apart from a general feeling that she was of no use at all, she was happy enough.

  For some time she and Mrs. Birkett had been in consultation about calling on Mrs. Bissell. It was publicly known that Mr. Bissell had taken Maria Cottage and there installed his wife, but no one had seen her, and Mr. Bissell had not been communicative. More than once Mrs. Birkett had said to Mr. Bissell that she would like so much to call on his wife. To each suggestion Mr. Bissell had replied that Mrs. Bissell was settling the things in. What the things were Mrs. Birkett and Mrs. Morland could not exactly under
stand, for Maria was fully furnished and news had reached them via the carrier, who was also the coals, that the Bissells’ luggage had consisted of three suitcases. But they felt that something was wrong and wished they had a book of etiquette that would tell them about calling on the wives of Headmasters of evacuated schools.

  ‘In Simla,’ said Mrs. Morland, who had never been there, or indeed in any part of India, but had read a great many novels about Anglo-Indian life, ‘you have a letter-box, at least whatever you do have in India, on the front gate and when new people come they put their cards in your box.’

  Mrs. Birkett wondered how they knew which boxes to put them in.

  ‘I suppose an A.D.C. or someone tells them,’ said Mrs. Morland. ‘But Amy, though it seems snobbish to say so, perhaps Mrs. Bissell doesn’t have cards.’

  Mrs. Birkett thought this quite probable, which led to a discussion as to whether people who didn’t have cards would think it an offensive act of Capittleism if people who had cards left them on them. As their premises were based on entire ignorance the argument was very inconclusive. The only people who were known to have made Mrs. Bissell’s acquaintance were Miss Hampton and Miss Bent, but as Mrs. Birkett didn’t know them very well this did not help matters. Philip Winter, whose friendship with those ladies, begun in the Red Lion bar and ripened at Adelina Cottage, would have been a link, was at a place known officially as ‘somewhere within fifty miles of Bath,’ but known in the Masters’ Common Room, the School Debating and Literary Societies, the Red Lion, and practically the whole of Southbridge as Tiptor Camp, Nr. Bumblecombe, Somerset, and could not help.

  The solution to this social impasse was at last provided by Mr. Bissell himself, who under cover of returning a book on the Antiquities of Barchester that Mr. Birkett had lent him, told Mrs. Birkett that Mrs. Bissell had got things a bit settled and would be very pleased if Mrs. Birkett would come to tea with her. Mrs. Birkett, who knew that tea and Tea were different things, warily inquired what time Mrs. Bissell was expecting them and was told four o’clock which was a relief, for though she would willingly have gone to Tea at six or even six-thirty, and eaten heartily for the sake of the School, she knew that she could not eat another hearty meal at eight o’clock; and that would fidget her husband.

  ‘And do you think,’ said Mrs. Birkett, ‘that Mrs. Bissell would allow me to bring Mrs. Morland?’

  Mr. Bissell said that Mrs. Bissell had hardly liked to ask Mrs. Morland but would be very pleased, and on this double-edged statement took his leave.

  Accordingly Mrs. Birkett and Mrs. Morland walked down to Southbridge and knocked at the door of Maria Cottage (for the Vicar’s aunt had a brass Lincoln Imp for a knocker and refused to have a bell). The door was opened by a small, plumpish woman with very neat hair and a singularly sweet and placid expression.

  ‘I said to myself,’ said Mrs. Bissell as she ushered her guests into the drawing-room, ‘as I saw you cross the green, “That must be Mrs. Birkett and Mrs. Morland.” This is a great pleasure and I’m sure I’d have asked you before, but it does take time to settle things.’

  Mrs. Birkett, who had known Maria Cottage when the Vicar’s aunt lived there, looked round. Every piece of furniture that could be moved had been placed cornerways instead of square. A tea-table was standing askew in front of the fire with a lace cloth laid diamond-wise upon it and five plates each with a small folded napkin lace-edged. There were two plates of sandwiches reposing on lace doyleys and a large cake on a doyley with fringes. In the corner of the room a little girl was playing with some coloured blocks.

  ‘Come and say how do you do, Edna,’ said Mrs. Bissell.

  ‘I?’ said the little girl.

  ‘Now we know we mustn’t say “eh,”’ said Mrs. Bissell.

  ‘Wot sy?’ said the little girl.

  ‘No, Edna, we don’t say “What did you say,”’ said Mrs. Bissell. ‘What is it we do say?’

  ‘Pardon,’ said the little girl, who looked remarkably like an idiot.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mrs. Bissell cheerfully. ‘And now come and say How do you do.’

  ‘I?’ said the little girl.

  ‘I think we’ll leave her for the present,’ said Mrs. Bissell composedly. ‘She is a dear-little thing, a niece of Mr. Bissell’s niece by marriage, but both her parents were mentally defective. She was to be evacuated with the M.D. school, but she is liable to fits. In fact it has been quite a business deciding if she ought to be at an M.D. or a P.D. school—mentally defective and physically defective I should explain perhaps—so I said I would take her. She is really improving I think since we came down here with this beautiful air and we are getting on quite nicely with our lessons. She goes to the village school and is quite good, and if she looks like having a fit the mistress just phones me up and I come and fetch her.’

  While she was speaking Mrs. Bissell had poured out tea, handed sandwiches, cut the cake, all with a placid efficiency that deeply impressed her visitors. Conversation then flowed pleasantly and genteelly on the weather and the school. Mrs. Birkett said, with great truth, what a pleasure it had been to her husband to work with Mr. Bissell. As she afterwards confessed to Mrs. Morland, she had perhaps given this praise rather in the manner of a Lady Bountiful and was justly rewarded for her pride, for Mrs. Bissell appeared to take all the praise as a matter of course and with perfect simplicity let her understand that Mr. Bissell had been quite relieved to find vestiges of civilisation in a Public School.

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs. Bissell, ‘the day of the Public School is over. After this war we shall have nothing but State-supported schools. The same with Oxford and Cambridge of course. There won’t be any place for young men to waste their time and their parents’ money and be turned out useless burdens on the country. Mr. Bissell has supported himself with scholarships and grants ever since he was fifteen.’

  There was something about Mrs. Bissell that made it quite impossible to resent her calm statements. Even Mrs. Morland, who always meant to be modest about her children and always failed, didn’t like to mention that her sailor son had supported himself from an even earlier age than Mr. Bissell, though, owing to being much younger, not for so long; or that her two eldest boys had not for some years had any money from her except the voluntary (she would have refrained from saying handsome) presents she gave them for Christmas and birthdays; or indeed that Tony had contributed largely to his education from the day he took a Scholarship to the Senior School up till the present moment. For she felt certain that Mrs. Bissell would regard all such self-help as proof of the advantages accruing to the sons of Capittleists; though why the fact of her husband having died many years ago leaving her to earn the money to clothe, feed and educate four boys should make her be a Capittleist she could not see, but an inner instinct told her that Mrs. Bissell would see it in that light.

  A shadow passed the window.

  ‘I dare say you wondered,’ said Mrs. Bissell, ‘who that extra plate was for. That’s for Daddy. He always gets home for a cup of tea. Pardon me, but he likes me to let him in.’

  Accordingly she went to the front door and returned with Mr. Bissell. Mrs. Morland and Mrs. Birkett on comparing notes afterwards found they had both expected Mrs. Bissell to admit an aged and decrepit father also living in Maria Cottage, so Mr. Bissell’s appearance was a relief.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ said Mr. Bissell, who on crossing the threshold had shed the schoolmaster and become the domestic host. ‘Has Mother been looking after you?’

  ‘Is your mother here too, then?’ said Mrs. Morland.

  Mr. Bissell explained that though he and Mrs. Bissell had the misfortune to have no chicks, they had always used those sweet old names and little Edna thought they were her real Mother and Daddy. The guests felt that little Edna was incapable of such a flight of reasoning but said nothing.

  ‘And how do you like our little home?’ said Mr. Bissell to Mrs. Birkett, who was loud in her commendation of its charms and with great tact
said she liked the way Mrs. Bissell had arranged the furniture.

  ‘Of course it’s only our peedatair,’ said Mr. Bissell, ‘but Mrs. Bissell has quite the art of making a home.’

  Mrs. Morland, feeling that as a woman of letters something was expected of her, said Mrs. Bissell had given the cottage a really homey atmosphere and she hoped the pied-à-terre (which she tried not to pronounce in too affected a way) would be their home for a long time.

  Mr. Bissell said that Mother was quite a country girl having lived at Sevenoaks so it was quite like old times for her to be in the country again and little Edna looked quite different.

  ‘And it must be so nice for you to have the school and the masters here,’ said Mrs. Morland, nobly sacrificing herself in the cause of making conversation.

  Mrs. Bissell was very noticeably silent.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t say this officially,’ said Mr. Bissell, wiping his mouth on the lace-edged napkin and pushing his cup away, ‘but as we are all among friends and not speaking ex-cathedral, I must in honesty confess that some of my colleagues, though a splendid, loyal, conscientious, hard-working set of men,’ said Mr. Bissell, obviously crushing down his lower self, ‘are not exactly what I would call quite.’

  His guests may have imagined that the sentence was not finished, but it evidently was.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Mrs. Morland, nervously pushing a stray hairpin into her skull. ‘They haven’t got that kind of broadness.’

  ‘There you have hit the nail on the head, Mrs. Morland,’ said Mr. Bissell, shifting himself and his chair along the floor nearer to her. ‘Mr. Hopkins for instance, a fine scientific man with a very good degree from Aberystwyth, and excellent at keeping discipline, isn’t exactly the type the Hosiers’ Boys want. “Russia was all very well, Hopkins,” I said to him no later than last Tuesday, “when she was Russia, but when—and we will let alone,” I said, “any question of whether we should or should not have made a Trade Pact with her, for that is foreign to the trend of the present discussion—when,” I said, “Russia deliberately plays into the hands of the Ryke, all I say is she has let the N.U.T. down, and that will go very heavily against her. And don’t answer me, Hopkins,” I said, “for I know exactly what you are going to say, and you can say it at the N.U.T. Congress and see how they take it.”’