‘Then that’s all right,’ said Lady Emily. ‘And now, Mary, just put that little blue silk cushion off the sofa in behind my back and ring for Conque.’
Mary rang. Gudgeon appeared.
‘Oh, Gudgeon,’ said Lady Emily, untwisting the chiffon veil she had had round her head at dinner, ‘tell Conque to bring my hot-water bottle.’
‘The bottle was placed here, my lady, just before you came in from dinner,’ said Gudgeon, extracting it from among the rugs at Lady Emily’s feet.
‘Oh, thank you so much. And Mr John and Mr David and Mr Martin are all going tomorrow, but I don’t know when. I suppose they will be going by train as Mr John and Mr David haven’t brought their cars and Mr Martin, of course, hasn’t got one. You had better find out what time Weston will be wanted to take them to the station and if it is Rushwater or Southbridge. Mary, dear, give me a little screen that you will find on the mantelpiece, just to keep the fire off my face – no, the other side of the mantelpiece – thank you, darling. Wait a moment, Gudgeon, because I know I had something else to say. Oh, yes, if they go by the twelve-forty they will want sandwiches, I expect, as it would mean lunch at twelve if they wanted lunch, and that is so early. Or if there is a dining car they will want to lunch on the train, because Mr John hates sandwiches, but I don’t remember if that train has a dining car; but if they go by another train of course that won’t matter. But you had better tell Mrs Siddon, just in case. And, Gudgeon, does Walter skylark with Ivy in the pantry?’
‘I couldn’t say, my lady. Not in my presence.’
‘No, I thought not. Well, then, that’s all right; only Mrs Siddon seems worried, so I said I’d speak about it, but of course if you say so it’s all right. And tell Walter if he is packing for Mr Martin not to put in any books because last time he packed two library books and Mr Leslie was annoyed.’
‘Very good, my lady.’
‘Then that’s all settled,’ said Lady Emily with a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Gudgeon. Oh, I expect the trains will be different tomorrow, as it is Whit Tuesday, or are they the same again? You could telephone to the station-master at Southbridge and make sure, only you had better do it tonight, in case the gentlemen want to know which train they can have.’
‘Gudgeon will see to it all, Mamma,’ said Agnes.
‘Now, Mary, darling, do sing to me,’ said Lady Emily. ‘Agnes says you have a delicious voice.’
‘If you really want me to, Aunt Emily.’
‘It will be delicious. But you can’t see in the dark over there. I can’t think why there isn’t a light for the piano. Agnes, where are those candlesticks we used in the winter?’
‘I will ring and ask Gudgeon, Mamma.’
‘I know,’ said Lady Emily, getting painfully up, scattering shawls, hot bottles, embroidery in confusion around her. ‘They are on the top of the bookcase. Yes, here they are. And, Agnes, put out all the other lights except just my little lamp for my table and then we can have a delicious cosy time.’
Lady Emily went back to the long chair, recovered her hot-water bottle, red shawl, blue silk cushion, embroidery, spectacles and screen, and composed herself to at least a temporary attention, while Mary, shy and unhappy, sat down at the piano. But finding that Lady Emily and Agnes kept up a low murmuring conversation in which the words ‘cereals’, ‘bath water not nearly hot enough’, ‘darling Clarissa’ might have been distinguished, she gained courage and went on singing quite happily in the half-light at the end of the long drawing-room.
So it happened that John, coming in before the others, heard a small clear voice and paused to listen.
‘Bist du bei mir,’ it sang, very sweetly and without effort, ‘geh ich mit Freuden zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh.’
There seemed to be no reason why the linked sweetness of the air should ever come to an end. John standing unseen in the dim room felt that time was still for the space of that song. Quiet waters flowed into his heart, a rose blossomed and bloomed; the waters ebbed, the rose petals fell. Without disturbing Mary, he trod softly to the hearth and sat down with his mother and sister. Whatever else Mary may have sung, the three did not hear it. John was following a vision, while his mother offered silent thanks for the look of peace in his face. Agnes, who liked music with all her gentle uncritical nature, thought how nice it would be if dear John did marry Mary, because then they could have some music in the evenings and perhaps the children would be musical.
Therefore Mr Leslie, coming in with David and Martin, was surprised to find them all in the dark.
‘Gudgeon not turned the lights up?’ he asked, turning on all the switches.
In the sudden dazzle, Mary was able to leave the piano and come near the fire. She saw John, but thought, if she thought about it at all, that he had come in with the rest.
‘Shall I read to you, darling?’ David asked his mother.
‘Yes, do. Mary, you must hear David read. He reads quite beautifully. Read us some Blake, darling.’
‘Do you mind if I go to bed now, Gran?’ said Martin, alarmed at the prospect.
‘You aren’t ill, Martin?’
‘No, Gran, of course not. But I think it’s a good plan to go to bed early sometimes,’ he said virtuously.
‘All right, Martin,’ said his young uncle. ‘I shall go to bed when you recite your French piece, that’s all.’
‘Oh, shut up, David. It’s better than your beastly Blake, anyhow.’
‘What, my young classic,’ said David, catching Martin by the wrist, ‘can’t you abide the romantics? I’ll read some Milton. Where’s your Paradise Lost, Mother?’
‘I had it a few days ago, because I was painting a picture of the Tree of Knowledge in the beginning,’ said Lady Emily, ‘and I couldn’t get the serpent right. I expect it’s on my table.’
‘So it is. Now, Martin, sit down and listen to Uncle David.’
‘Which bit will you read?’ said Agnes.
‘I am going to read the bit about Satan being turned into a serpent,’ said David. ‘And let it be a warning to you, Martin.’
He at once began to read, remarkably well. But at the lines:
… they fondly thinking to allay
Their appetite with gust; instead of fruit
Chewed bitter ashes, which the offended taste
With spattering noise rejected …
Martin unfortunately was overtaken by violent giggles and fell into disgrace.
‘You had better go to bed, Martin,’ said his grandfather.
‘Sorry, Grandfather, but it was so frightfully funny. I never knew Milton could be funny before. “Spattering noise” – oh, gosh! Thanks most awfully, David. Goodnight, everyone.’
He reeled from the room overcome with laughter.
‘It is funny, too,’ said David. ‘But I was so busy listening to the beauty of my own voice that I couldn’t stop to laugh. Don’t you think I ought to pull off that job at Broadcasting House, Mother?’
‘I hope so, David. Wouldn’t you like to go on reading? Only give me a glass of barley water first. Oh, hasn’t it come yet? It must be earlier than I thought. Oh, here is Gudgeon with the drinks. He must have been waiting till you had finished reading, David.’
‘I think Milton cannot have been at all the sort of person one would want to know,’ said Agnes. ‘I don’t think we should have had much in common.’
‘But he must have been attractive in some ways, Agnes,’ said Lady Emily, always ready to defend the absent. ‘He had two wives. Get some barley water now, John dear.’
‘I don’t think one would have liked them very much either,’ said Agnes, who seemed to nourish what in one so sweet-tempered was quite a venomous feeling against the poet.
‘The first wouldn’t have been so bad, but I couldn’t have liked the second,’ said Mary. ‘Fancy the kind of woman that liked marrying a widower.’
John gave his mother her barley water. David helped himself to whisky and soda and drifted over to the piano, where he played and sa
ng snatches of music from revues and musical comedies with such masterful ease that Mary was more than ever glad the men had not been in the room when she was singing.
‘You must have had a black mammy for your fairy godmother, David,’ said John. ‘I don’t see how else you got that nigger touch in your voice.’
‘Drinking rum and treacle does it,’ said David. He played a few chords and sang:
‘Treacle make my voice so sweet,
Fit to sing at de Judgment seat.
Drinking treacle, drinking rum,
Singing to de Lawd till Kingdom Come.’
‘Is that a new spiritual, David?’ asked his mother.
‘Not yet, darling, but it will be soon.’
‘What does David mean?’ asked Agnes.
‘Treacle make my voice so clear,
All de darkies come to hear.
Drinking treacle, drinking rum,
Dat’s what for de darkies come.’
‘Molasses, I believe, is the American term for treacle,’ said Mr Leslie.
‘Yes, Father, but it didn’t fit the poem, so they had to alter it to treacle. Anyway, you know what Americans are.’
‘Quite right, quite right,’ said Mr Leslie, who certainly knew very little about it.
Lady Emily then began to collect herself for bed. As she insisted on carrying everything herself, her progress was like a paper-chase. Agnes, David and Mary dutifully followed her to gather what she let fall. At her door she said goodnight, taking David in with her to show him the moon through her window.
‘Are you comfortable in your room, darling?’ Agnes asked Mary. ‘It is a room I am very fond of. It is the one dear Gay always used when she came here alone.’
‘Who is Gay, Aunt Agnes?’
‘Darling John’s wife. We all adored her. You would have loved her and so would the children.’
‘I never knew John was married.’
‘Darling Gay died seven years ago. James was born just before she died and she thought he was the loveliest baby she had ever seen. Goodnight, darling, and sleep well.’
Not till Mary was in bed did she remember with sickening shame her words about Milton’s second wife. What must John have thought of her for sneering at widowers? Perhaps he was still getting Aunt Emily’s barley water and had missed her silly priggish remark. Yet it was somehow true about widowers. Nothing you could do would give the word a romantic sound. Only quite elderly people ought to be widowers.
John had heard, but was more concerned with the possible remorse Mary might have than with his own feelings. It was obvious that the child, who after all had never met him before and did not know his family intimately, except Agnes, had never heard of Gay. Seeing her on such easy terms with David and Martin, he had taken it for granted that she knew about himself. Now what should he do? Pretend that he had never heard what she said, or find some way of telling her that no such mistake could hurt him in any way now? It might seem self-conscious to allude to it at all, yet he did not want to think of her possibly being disturbed at the recollection of her idle words. Perhaps Agnes or his mother could help.
What she had said was only thoughtless talk. What she had sung was his key to her. Even if the pure enchanting voice meant nothing, it was enough that it existed. Bist du bei mir. Bitter water flowed into his heart. The rose bloomed no more.
6
Some Aspects of David
On the following day, amid indescribable tumult of plans and counter-plans, Martin and his uncles left. Lady Emily stayed in bed till they had gone, adding her share to the confusion by sending for each in turn, sending each to find the other and Mary to find them all, besides issuing contradictory orders through Conque to Gudgeon and Weston. By great personal exertion the party were at last dispatched, largely owing to Gudgeon, who had skilfully intercepted a message to Weston, which would have resulted in the car coming half an hour too late to take them to the wrong station. Just as they were leaving, Conque appeared, breathless, to say that her ladyship particularly wanted her Seccotine and could Mr Martin tell her where it was. Martin rummaged about in his pockets.
‘Sorry, Conk,’ he said, ‘it’s stuck to the lining and got all hard. I’ll tell Weston to get some in Southbridge. Goodbye, Mary.’
‘Goodbye,’ shouted his uncles as they all drove off, leaving Mary on the steps. She went to find Agnes, who was said to be doing the flowers. This she did by walking about the garden with James and Emmy, and talking to Brown, the head-gardener, about his children. Meanwhile, the second gardener had cut the flowers for the house and they were subsequently arranged by Gudgeon.
‘Good morning, darling,’ said Agnes, offering her niece a cheek which was so soft that Mary was always afraid of going right through it. ‘It is too sad that the boys have gone. You must help me with the flowers, because they take the whole morning, and I can’t bear it if I don’t do them myself.’
‘Did Nannie get her puffed wheat this morning?’ asked Mary.
‘Yes, she did. You were so tactful to Siddon, Mary. But the children wouldn’t eat it, wicked ones,’ said Agnes proudly, ‘so they are to try shredded wheat.’
Day followed day in delightful emptiness. Agnes and her mother did their embroidery and had endless conversations about plans for visiting neighbours or having a few people to lunch, plans which usually never got beyond their inception. Mary went for long walks alone, played tennis with the doctor and his wife, and spent much of her time with the children. She was a little shy of being too much with her aunts. Although Lady Emily and Agnes were as kind as they could be, they gave her such an unmarried feeling that she rather avoided sitting much with them during the day. In the evenings she played and sang for Lady Emily, whose habit of talking through all music did not prevent her enjoying it deeply. Mr Macpherson usually came in two or three times a week when they were alone, talked business to Mr Leslie after dinner, and then joined the ladies. He had taken a great liking to Mary, who enjoyed going about the country with him and sang Scotch songs for his special pleasure.
So June and part of July slipped away. It was lovely summer weather, and nearly every morning Mary woke to see the great meadow hidden in dewy mist through which the sun would have broken by breakfast-time. It would have been heavenly undisturbed peace except for David’s weekend visits. It would have been even a little dull except for David’s weekend visits. His job at Broadcasting House had not come off. He had had a trial there, and had rashly chosen to read the passage from Milton which had given such joy to Martin. When he came to the lines about the spattering noise, he remembered Martin’s face, and sitting back in his chair, roared with laughter into the scandalised microphone. Joan Stevenson, the very competent young woman who was in charge of the department which dealt with Uplift Poetry Readings, had been shocked, or as she preferred to put it, frankly shocked, and took him back to her office in disgrace.
‘You spoilt everything by laughing,’ she said with some annoyance. ‘Now they won’t consider you at all.’
‘But why?’ asked David, still weak with the thought of Martin. ‘Can’t a man laugh without shocking you? Don’t tell me you live here and never laugh.’
‘Of course we laugh,’ said Joan Stevenson, ‘but the microphone is, after all, well, frankly, almost a sacred charge. You haven’t had the experience I have, David, and you don’t quite realise what your action might have meant to hundreds and thousands of listeners, if this were a real broadcast.’
‘Of course, when you talk like that it puts me off altogether,’ said David. ‘I don’t mind talking aloud into that little box, which would have quite a nice face if you put some eyes and a couple of ears on it, but to think of reading aloud to all those people is, frankly, repellent, as you would say.’
‘David!’
‘Oh, I don’t mean you think the people repellent, I was only ragging,’ said David, a little nervous about the effect of his deliberate parody of Joan’s earnest manner of speech. ‘I only meant, just think of millions of
them, all over England. Of course most of them only turn it on to knit by, or read the paper by, or dance to – not that they would dance to Milton, I admit.’
‘No, David, you are being very unfair. Think what it means to all these homes to have beauty brought to them, and education of the highest kind, just for the asking.’
‘Listen, love,’ said David, quite untroubled by the presence of Miss Stevenson’s secretary in the little office, ‘as for education, that’s all bunk. It just fills them up with ideas so that they need never think at all. And as for beauty, I can see the earnest ones listening to me reading Milton, their yearning eyes gleaming with lack of intelligence. And anyway they could ask for it till they were black in the faces unless they paid for a licence.’
‘I am very sorry you take it like that, David.’
‘Well, I’m sorry I laughed, but that bit is so frightfully comic once you see it that way. Anyway, love, I don’t think I was born to live here. I don’t like all your gentlemen friends with their Fair Isle sweaters tucked into their flannel bags, all calling each other Lionel.’
A young man answering closely to David’s description came in.
‘Not interrupting, am I, Joan?’ he inquired, in so perfect an accent that David smiled with pleasure. ‘I just dropped in to hear the result of Mr Leslie’s trial. I must introduce myself,’ he said, holding out his hand in a frank and boyish way, ‘Lionel Harvest. I’m only a kind of humble underling of Joan’s. She is doing magnificent work, and we mere men have to admire and feebly emulate.’
David shook his hand warmly, assuring him with perfect truth that he was delighted to meet him. He explained, taking the words out of Miss Stevenson’s mouth, that he had been turned down and was going to seek his luck at earning a crust elsewhere.
‘Oh, rotten luck, rotten luck,’ cried Mr Harvest sympathetically. ‘Well, arrivederci,’ and off he rushed to tell his friend Mr Potter, whose hair waved quite naturally, that the Stevenson had brought in another dud, and they might yet succeed in a little conspiracy they were getting up against her.
Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 8