Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘Hullo, David,’ he said. ‘Are you going down to Rushwater for the weekend? You are? Then I want you to see Macpherson for me,’ and he gave David a message about some cottage repairs.

  ‘Right. I wish you had been at lunch with me today. I took Mary and Joan Stevenson out and we could have done with another man. I rang you up, but you were out.’

  ‘Mary told me. She came round to fetch a letter for Father. I gathered that the lunch was a great success, except that you forgot some strawberries that you had promised her.’

  ‘By Jove, so I did. But, anyway, they would have been a day old. They only get them on Tuesday and Friday.’

  ‘Take some down tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yes, rather. When do we see you down there, John?’

  ‘Not this month. I’ll be down in August for Martin’s celebrations.’

  ‘Well, dine with me before then. I’ll tell you all about my novel. I was talking to a man today who seems rather keen—’

  When David had finished anticipating all he wished to say when his brother dined with him, John stood in thought for a moment. He had done his best to help David to repair his forgetfulness; whether David would think of it again was another question.

  Mary drove back to Rushwater with very mixed feelings, the chief of which was shame, not only at her extremely unladylike behaviour at lunch, but at her subsequent babyish behaviour in John’s office. Her comfort under the first affliction was that she didn’t think David had noticed, though this again led to a feeling of considerable mortification that he hadn’t. Her comfort under the second affliction was that she had at last managed to clear up the affair of her silly ignorant remark about widowers. John had been so kind about it that there would not be even a faint discomfort in meeting him again. It was partly the word widower that made one self-conscious. Why a widow should raise an attractive or pathetic image in one’s mind, or at the worst something rather bold and dashing, while widower seemed to have a vague connection with the word mother-in-law cannot be explained. Brightness falls from even Clive Newcome when we have to envisage him as a young widower in mourning. As for David Copperfield, his creator most wisely sent him abroad almost at once, and while he was still in England surrounded him with events so overwhelming that we never have time to think of his widowerhood.

  She only got back in time to run upstairs and dress, and did not see her relations till they met for dinner. Mr Leslie showed genuine pleasure at having her back. Agnes and Lady Emily folded her in the softest of embraces. Mr Macpherson was with them for dinner.

  ‘Well, Miss Mary,’ he said, ‘did you have a good time in London?’

  Mary said she had had a lovely time. David had given her a delicious lunch and there was a very nice girl called Miss Stevenson who was frightfully clever and worked at broadcasting. Having paid this lip-service to the hateful Miss Stevenson, she felt that she had gone far towards appeasing her conscience in the matter of her bad behaviour at lunch.

  ‘Don’t know what they want all these girls for,’ said Mr Leslie. ‘Taking jobs from the men. Glad you don’t want to have a job, Mary.’

  ‘I am afraid I did have a job for a bit,’ said Mary, ‘in a library.’

  ‘Oh, books, that’s all right. No harm in a girl reading a bit. It’s all this education I object to. Same everywhere. All these young people going to the university and coming away half-baked. Can’t even talk English. Heard a fellow on the wireless once, talking about a cattle show in the West. What do you think he said? Macpherson, this will amuse you. He said it was held at Westhampton Polling ford.’

  Mr Leslie laughed loudly and fiercely. Mr Macpherson gave a short bark and applied himself to inward meditation on the enormity of this announcement.

  ‘Where was it really held?’ asked Mary.

  ‘He must have meant Wumpton Pifford,’ said Agnes. ‘How very peculiar. That was where Rushwater Rinaldo got a prize. I suppose he didn’t know any better, poor thing. There was apricot jam for tea today and darling Clarissa called it dickybob.’

  ‘Dickybob, eh?’ said Mr Leslie, coming into the conversation again after his laugh. ‘What did the child mean? Can’t she say dickybird yet?’

  ‘No, Father,’ said Agnes, not displeased at this opportunity of praising her gifted younger daughter again, ‘it was apricot jam and darling Clarissa called it dickybob.’

  Mr Leslie made no comment, but appeared to think poorly of his youngest grandchild’s mental powers.

  Gudgeon came round to Mr Macpherson.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir, it’s Mr David on the phone from London, and he would wish to speak with you if you are here, sir.’

  ‘Excuse me, Lady Emily,’ said Mr Macpherson, getting up.

  ‘Might have known we dine at eight, interrupting Macpherson’s dinner like that,’ said Mr Leslie.

  ‘But, Henry,’ said Lady Emily, who was getting into frightful difficulties with a chicken wing, ‘time always seems so different in London. Walter, take this plate and cut through the joint for me on the sideboard. Don’t you know,’ she continued to the company at large, ‘how one is sometimes lucky with chickens and sometimes isn’t. Their joints sometimes go into all the wrong places. Turkeys are worse, and ducks worst of all. Do you remember, Henry – thank you, Walter, that is perfect now – a duck there was at Papa’s a great many years ago?’

  ‘Can’t say I do, my dear.’

  ‘You must, Henry. It was quite soon after we were married, and we went to stay with Papa and there was a duck.’

  She paused so long that everyone thought the story had come to an end.

  ‘Dare say there was,’ said Mr Leslie. ‘Sort of thing one would have.’

  ‘No. Wait,’ said Lady Emily impressively. ‘It was not a duck, it was a turbot, a very large turbot, and Mamma had it placed on the table and Papa said to one of the footmen, “Take it away and serve it from the sideboard.”’

  The end of this remarkable anecdote was received with respectful silence.

  ‘Turbots don’t have joints, Emily,’ said Mr Leslie. ‘But I must say your father was quite right in having it served off the table, quite right.’

  ‘They don’t have joints, Henry, but they have bones, and I dare say it was the difficulty of getting into the chicken’s joints that made me think of a turbot’s bones.’

  ‘Extraordinary the way one thing does make one think of another sometimes,’ said Mr Leslie. ‘Well, Macpherson, what had David to say?’

  ‘A message from Mr John about those cottages.’

  ‘John? Thought Gudgeon said David.’

  ‘You were correct, Mr Leslie. David rang up to say that he couldn’t get away this weekend as he expected, so he gave me the message Mr John had asked him to bring. I’ll tell you about it after dinner. He sent his love to you, Lady Emily, and I was to tell you he regretted very much his inability to be with you this weekend.’

  ‘It is very sad,’ said Agnes. ‘I wanted David to see Emmy on the pony. She looks so sweet.’

  ‘Well, it will be sad not to have David to read to us,’ said Lady Emily, shaking white sugar over her savoury. ‘It was very naughty of Martin to laugh so much when David read Milton aloud to us so beautifully. Never mind, we shall be very busy getting ready for the concert in the racquet-court and the supper. Mary, were you able to get all the things we wanted at Woolworth’s?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Emily.’

  ‘Mamma,’ said Agnes, who had been gently trying to attract her mother’s attention, ‘that was sugar you put on the cheese soufflé.’

  ‘I thought it was pepper. Conque will not give me my right spectacles. Walter, bring me a clean plate and I’ll just scrape off the parts that got sugar on them and put them on the plate, if you will hold it near me. That’s better. Now you can take it away. Papa always used to put port wine into his cheese.’

  ‘Very sensible thing to do,’ said Mr Leslie. ‘Sensible man, Lord Pomfret.’

  ‘But not sugar, Mamma,’ said Agnes firmly. ‘Grandpa
pa never put sugar into his cheese.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t put sugar into his cheese,’ said Mr Leslie, with some heat. ‘Man would be a fool to do that. You don’t know what you are talking about, Agnes.’

  His daughter, who had shown unusual liveliness in dealing with her mother’s behaviour over the savoury, had relapsed into her customary happy indifference and only smiled lovingly and abstractedly at him.

  8

  David Makes Amends

  The weekend passed in a frenzy of preparation. For many years there had been a concert in the racquet-court given by tenants on the estate, followed by a supper and presents for all the children. The whole affair was organised by Mr Macpherson and some of the farmers’ wives, and as the procedure, and indeed the programme, was almost unvarying from year to year, Lady Emily had no reason to trouble about it. But her genius for hindering and meddling was too strong to resist. Every year she would descend uninvited upon the committee as they sat in Mr Macpherson’s office.

  ‘Here I am, come to disturb you all,’ she would say, smiling deliciously, while she unwound her scarves and took the chair from which Mr Macpherson, the chairman, had risen.

  After inquiring about the health of all the husbands and children, with variations on the subject of her own family, she would ask what they had been arranging, admire the plans, suggest impossible alterations, or something entirely different, and after holding up all business for the best part of an hour, drift out again. The committee had finally, with great cunning, arranged a well-advertised meeting which they secretly called ‘Her Ladyship’s Committee’, at which they agreed to everything she said without any intention of taking it seriously. Other meetings were held less publicly and so the work was done.

  This year she had wanted Mary to sing. Mary was terrified at the thought and confided in Mr Macpherson. ‘That’s her ladyship all over,’ he observed disloyally. ‘Why, the whole point of the affair is that the entertainment should be provided by the tenants themselves and some of the local people like the postmaster and the station-master. I would well like to hear you sing a good Scots song, Miss Mary, but the drawing-room is your place, not the racquet-court. I’ll make her ladyship see reason.’

  In making this statement he showed a rashness alien to his disposition. But whether he made Lady Emily see reason (which no one else had ever succeeded in doing), or whether he spoke with authority, as he occasionally did, no more was said of Mary’s taking part. In any case, she knew that she could not have sung, for her worst fears were realised. David had evidently been disgusted by her disgraceful behaviour, though he had been too polite to say so at the time. He had told her he was coming down to Rushwater, but sooner than spend a weekend in company with such an unrestrained, ill-bred girl, he had given up the pleasure of seeing his parents. It would probably have been happier for everyone if she had never been born, or had died some time ago.

  She then drifted into an agreeable reverie in which Miss Stevenson came to stay at Rushwater and the house caught fire. Miss Stevenson’s bedroom was cut off by the flames. Hastily damping a blanket in her water-jug, Mary flung it round her head and ascended the smoke-filled stairs. What though the blanket made it impossible to see and tripped her up at every step, what were such trifles? ‘Miss Stevenson,’ she cried at Miss Stevenson’s door. There was no answer. Dashing in, it was but the work of a moment to wake the sleeping girl, damp a blanket in the water-jug, fling it round her head and drag her to safety. But from the staircase came an ominous crackling sound, and a lurid light filled the room. Rushing to the window, she beheld David on the terrace. It was but the work of a moment to strip the sheets from the bed, tear them into strips, knot them together and tie them to the bed-post. ‘You are the heavier,’ said Mary to Miss Stevenson (it was her one moment of revenge), ‘go first.’ Swiftly Miss Stevenson, wrapped in the blanket, slid down the rope into David’s arms. No sooner had she reached the ground than Mary, throwing away her blanket, prepared to follow her. But careless of her own safety – for had she not seen Miss Stevenson in David’s arms? – she recked not that the licking flames had reached the bed-post. The frail ladder to which she clung gave way. She fell. Her back was broken, but she felt no pain. David’s arms were round her. ‘I am the mashed fireman,’ she said with bitter gaiety. All marvelled at her courage. ‘Is Miss Stevenson safe?’ she murmured, fighting the pain – no, there must not be any pain – the blackness which threatened to overwhelm her. ‘I don’t know, and I don’t care,’ said David. ‘Something wrapped in a wet blanket came down. But, oh, Mary, Mary, it was always you that I wanted.’

  To this fascinating picture her mind returned at intervals during the weekend, with much satisfaction and considerable elaboration of details.

  Agnes, with the exercise of much diplomacy, persuaded her mother that they would never have enough presents for all the children, so Lady Emily occupied the days before the concert in painting a number of little cardboard boxes which Agnes had had the foresight to ask Mary to get in town, and filling them with sweets. It rained all Sunday and Monday, which helped to keep her within doors. On Tuesday they woke again to pouring rain, so her activities had to be confined to sending contradictory messages which no one delivered.

  Dinner was to be at seven, the concert from eight to ten, supper from ten to eleven. At five minutes to eight a procession with umbrellas, mackintoshes and overshoes set out for the racquet-court, which could not be approached except on foot. Lady Emily, in regal purple and amethysts, black lace on her hair, hobbled with the aid of her stick and her husband across the hundred yards of dripping garden in excellent spirits. Conque followed her with cushions and shawls. Once arrived at the racquet-court, Lady Emily sat down in the little entrance, while Conque took her galoshes off and relieved her of some of her wraps.

  ‘Come along, Emily,’ said Mr Leslie impatiently, ‘they are waiting to begin.’

  His wife wound herself up in her shawls and they went through the racquet-court to their places in the front row, followed by Agnes and Mary, with the cushions and extra wraps.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Lady Emily, sitting down slowly. ‘Now that cushion behind me, Agnes, and that shawl over my knees, and Conque – where is Conque? – oh, I remember, I told her she could go up to the gallery when she had taken my galoshes off. Mary, find Conque and ask her if she has brought my little footstool. Oh, Mr Banister, good evening. Wait a minute, Mary, I’ll ask Mr Banister. Mr Banister, you haven’t a hassock about you, have you?’

  ‘No, Lady Emily, I’m afraid I haven’t.’

  ‘What a pity. You have such a lot at church, in fact I’m always falling over them, and I somehow thought you might have one. Then, Mary, please find Conque.’

  But before Mary could go, Mr Macpherson came up with a small footstool.

  ‘I doubted whether your ladyship would have brought your footrest,’ he said, patiently, ‘so I just brought one up with me from the office. Miss Mary, come away with me a moment; I want to speak with you.’

  Mary followed him, stupidly wondering if David had suddenly died and sent a message to Mr Macpherson to tell his family. But while she was heroically going through the evening without letting them know what had happened, so that they might not spoil the pleasure of their dependants, she was recalled to reality by what Mr Macpherson was eagerly saying. The schoolmistress who played the accompaniments had suddenly been laid low with a temperature. Would Mary save the situation by taking her place? Knowing that nothing very difficult would be expected of her, she said yes at once, to Mr Macpherson’s visible relief. He conducted her behind the green baize curtain to a little space at one side of the platform where the performers were assembled. They were all very kind and helpful, the postmaster in particular.

  ‘You won’t find it’s like a London concert, Miss Preston,’ he assured her.

  Mary said she was sure she wouldn’t.

  The curtains were then drawn aside, discovering Mr Macpherson, who announced that Miss P
reston had kindly volunteered to replace Miss Stone, who had gone down with a touch of the old enemy, flu. Loud applause followed, which redoubled when Mary mounted the platform. While she waited at the little upright piano for the audience to settle itself, she saw Lady Emily insisting on spreading half her shawl over Mr Banister’s unwilling knees, and Agnes picking up her mother’s bag and stick. In the front row of the gallery she could see most of the servants, including Ivy, to whom Nannie had given lofty permission to come, indicating that churchgoers, having little chance of salvation in the next world, might as well enjoy themselves, if enjoyment it could be called, in this. Gudgeon she could not see anywhere, but looking at the programme, which was pinned to the piano, she saw in the second half:

  SONG (by special request) – MR GUDGEON

  The performance now began. Mary had no difficulty in reading the music provided, but had to exercise considerable ingenuity in following the soloists. All the performers, she discovered, regarded anything played by piano alone, whether as introduction, intermezzo between verses and phrases, or closing melody, as unnecessary padding, put in by the composer to lessen their chances. Taking this attitude, most of them plunged straight into their items, sometimes not even waiting for the key, in their anxiety to distinguish themselves. The audience enjoyed everything. The heat became stifling. A racquet-court is never at the best of times a well-ventilated place, and crowded as it was with people in wet shoes and coats it felt like a conservatory in which the favourite plants were damp wool and rubber.

  In the interval Mary joined her party, who were loud in admiration.

  ‘You’re just splendid, Miss Mary,’ said Mr Macpherson. ‘We’ve yet another piece of ill news, though. The young man that was to have done the comic solo, the last number on the programme, has had a tooth out, and he is in that state of agony that I had to advise him to go home. It is a pity, for the comic is a good note to end with. You couldn’t sing us something, could you, Miss Mary?’