Musgrave added to Miss Sapphire’s distress his own exasperation at her ditherings while he waited, receiver in hand. (‘Augh . . . if you could give Mrs. Severn a definite answer, Miss Sophia — ’). That meant Sapphire was once more in disgrace with the butler and she almost screamed ‘Then — yes. Yes. Tell her I’ll come, and of course my thanks. Oh dear — ’
4
The service was well attended — Doctor Mimms-Welwyn himself was preaching, to-day, but, as always with the vast edifice, beautifully, leisurely planned, there seemed to be room and to spare for all in spite of the serried hundreds.
In the aisles vergers glided, at the great doors and in the side chapels tourists and hikers, shorted, blowzy and brawny, the females of their species with blown hair tied up in gipsy handkerchiefs, loitered whispering. Amplifiers fixed to Norman pillars carried the prayers and psalms as an intensified volume of sound in which all words were drowned; the choir, as always, conveying to the eye an impression of numeric insufficiency, as always assuaged the ear as the sexless boy voices rose and penetrated to the remotest corner.
Glory be to the Father
And — to the Son —
The congregation prepared to settle for the second Lesson. And it was then that the Archbishop himself was seen by some to take a slip of paper from Canon Minter. He read it swiftly, paused fractionally, and murmured to the clergyman advancing upon the lectern. Coming to the altar steps the Archbishop spoke:
‘I have to tell you all that, this morning, war was declared between England and Germany. Let us pray.’
On their knees, they listened, some of them more to their own thoughts.
‘Oh Lord God of battles, strengthen our hands from now onwards, lead us not into the temptation of hatred and bitterness: arm with the conviction of the righteousness of our cause those who will meet the enemy face to face: comfort those of us who are left: uphold the weak and defenceless: guide us to a peace which is not alone of the earth but of Thy Holy Spirit and bring us to an everlasting glory that shall be humble and worthy in Thy sight.’
To her pain and distaste (a public place) old Miss Sapphire Roundelay was crying. She wept a little for the griefs she would never know, the loss of husband, the hazard of son . . . the absence of personal partaking in this the latest holocaust of which she, at over seventy, had seen so many.
Boring inwards, her mind searching its material of pity, she wept a little for Stacey, her nephew’s heir, and even for that agelong silence which she and Amethyst had observed towards each other.
Amy had borrowed a necklace for the Hunt Ball in Norminster without asking, as sisters sometimes do; but it was that Florentine ornament bought on her honeymoon in Italy by Mamma, a chain curiously worked in pinchbeck plaques studded with blister pearls and emeralds and said to have belonged to Bianca Capelli. Sapphire had not seen it upon her sister’s neck in the converted cloakroom at the Guild Hall — an ex-committee room with baize boards still upon the walls and inkpots ranged out of the way along the Gibbons mantelpiece that people came miles to see. Amethyst had let the trinket burst upon her in the very ballroom . . . and Vernon Severn was to be at the occasion . . . the father of that present squire of Delaye whose wife now stood beside her while the organ clarioned and the voices soared.
Our hope in years to come —
Mrs. Severn, a nice woman, middle-aged herself, now.
The necklace had suited Sapphire, it was, she thought, quaint: it was noticeable: it created conversation that, with men especially, led on to other, warmer topics. And she had been, thanks to Amy, reduced to her garnets which clashed abominably with the pink coats of her partners, with Severn’s pink . . . The fact that his intentions might be non-existent and his affections elsewhere she had never allowed herself to face; she clung to the belief that the Capelli necklet would have clinched matters. It was her story, her secret dignity, realized, she sometimes hoped, by the family.
Amy had of course not stopped speaking at once, had, indeed, persisted in her efforts to re-establish the old footing for weeks until Sapphire wore her down . . . the matter was never threshed out between them. Impossible in the circumstances. One had one’s pride to consider: one doesn’t admit that particular type of defeat.
And our eternal home.
The written messages that they exchanged were a semi-healing of the breach, their mutual silences in each other’s company at table and about the house a sufficing gesture, an adherence to the letter of alienation.
Furtively mopping her eyes as they knelt for the Benediction Sapphire mentally circled round the scene of the reconciliation. She would go up to Amy’s room . . . or perhaps they would meet in the garden —
The congregation was bathed in a sudden whim of sunlight, struggling to them through man-made obstacle. The famous Apostles Window was a network of scaffolding, the fourteenth-century glass had been removed and hidden some weeks ago, no one knew where. Some said to the cellars of the Archbishop’s palace at Normansmead, some to the crypt, others that it had been buried on Harold’s Barrow, that hill outside the city where the gold torque had been dug up and Roman pottery, as the townsfolk said, was six a penny.
The congregation dispersed slowly; there was always a delay during the valedictory intoning in the vestry and the main doors were kept closed, their accesses roped off with crimson, until the final smothered Amen.
Miss Sapphire and the Severns waited to reach their car by the North door which faced Morionyard. Over the whole city an extra-Sabbatic stillness hung. But Miss Sapphy, happy to be escorted, seeing life, with friends, even glimpsing a neighbour here and there, was recovering poise. There was the drive home to be looked forward to, and a good luncheon; social threads might be gathered up which, later on in the month, would lead to an engagement, an afternoon out. Alicia Severn was looking quite cheerful so that one need not give lip-service to the dreadfulness of war. The people were dispersing gravely, but as those who at least shoulder a familiar burden. . . .
Alicia Severn said, ‘Well, it’s come, and I must say it’s a relief. We’ve danced too long on the rim of a volcano.’
It was little Mrs. Galbraith who found the party and came up to Miss Roundelay and the squire’s wife white and anxious.
‘My cats, you know. I shall have them all put to sleep, of course.’ The squire’s wife was pitiful. ‘Send them over to Severn. We’ll do our best for the poor beasties.’ Mrs. Galbraith shook her head as she gave husky thanks. ‘It’s no good. The air-raids . . . gas . . . to see them choking . . . and I can’t afford those pneumatic-floor’d kennels the animal Societies are advertising.’ Miss Sapphire’s mind returned, while Mrs. Galbraith flitted off to catch the motor bus, to the contemplated rapprochement with Amy. She had given way, she felt, in the cathedral, had been impulsive. A reconciliation would make such talk among the family, might even lead to an exposure of the original casus belli, and that must never come out. And she and Amy would make uphill work of it at first, perhaps for the remainder of their time. Sadly shy, both. Better hold one’s tongue. But she would write Amy a nice account of the eventful service and the memorable occasion.
Jauntily stepping into the car Miss Sapphy was herself again.
5
In the village church of Delaye the Reverend Basil Winchcombe spoke to the familiarly sparse-filled pews. The people were indoors, he supposed, listening to the continuously relaid news from Whitehall on their wireless sets. His eyes rested a second on the trickle of shop-keepers, the publican’s wife, the Vicar’s servants, the decent, déclassé climbers and their families who called themselves gentleman farmers, and his standby in the other principal pew (for the Severns for some reason had deserted him this morning), Miss Jacinth Roundelay, the one they all called ‘Jessie’.
To them he spoke from the pulpit, scrapping at the last minute the sermon that he had worked upon with some enthusiasm if little expectation (it derived from the slaying by the jawbone of an ass, which he had always privately regarded as yet anot
her piece of symbolism, in this case representing malicious gossip).
‘“I come not to bring peace: but a sword.”’
‘It seems that once again we’re at war. I cannot in honesty preach to you about the duty of forgiveness and I am not going to suggest we turn the other cheek, or love our enemies. Some hates are holy things. Keep that hate alive in your minds and hearts as you go about your jobs, only keep it impersonal as you would your feeling about kicking a blind dog.
‘It is a very strange thought to me to realize that so many of the young fellows here to-day have never known a war. I only had six months of it, myself. But I want to tell those of you who may be called up that you mustn’t be too ready to believe all you’ve read about it. One lot writes and says it was all blood and filth and the other lot that it was all high heroism and high jinks and concerts and pretty girls. Neither side is entirely right. There’s monotony to face, and stage waits when the action sags and the field kitchens get lost and your letters and parcels don’t reach you and you can’t get a wash. That searches one out worse than going over the top.
‘Before we all go home and make our plans, I want to say that I wish you boys all the luck in the world, and that I’ve put in my application for draft as army chaplain, and I am hoping very much it may be with the Normanshires. We haven’t always understood each other, you and I. I believe this will be our chance. The curtain’s up on a very big show this time, if I’m not mistaken. Don’t belittle it, but don’t get stage fright. And may God guard us all.’
CHAPTER XV
1
IT was by the usual devious routes that Delaye received the news.
According to the milkman, England had been at war three days ago, but the postman thought not, adducing evidence of his eyes, that the Normanshires were still in barracks because his nephew, who was a Lance Corporal, had popped in to tea only yesterday. The fact that the Guild Hall was sandbagged out of all recognition was of course nothing to go by; it had been, for weeks, and half of the sandbags had burst already and the fleas (said the Lance Corporal) were getting something shocking and when it wasn’t fleas it was dogs. And that, concluded the British Army, is what comes of being too prepared. Nex’ time p’raps we should be a bit more backward in coming forward.
It was from their butler that the Roundelays had the news, as was right and proper. For had not Musgrave broken to them the tidings of war in 1914? and had he not, if it came to that, imparted the information that we were at war with the Boers to the late Mr. and Mrs. Roundelay, and Madam, being an excitable lady, had screamed and tugged at her pearl bracelet until it broke and scattered all over the boudoir floor, and cried out something about pearls for tears, which even as a young man Musgrave had regretted as being unworthy of the family as he stooped (stooping came easier in those days) to pick them up. And so, this Sunday morning, the old man plodded house and grounds seeking his family.
It was, he pondered, perhaps all for the best. For days and days there had been tension and strain at Delaye: someone always commencing to fidget round about eleven o’clock for the arrival of the newspapers: somebody always going down the avenue to see if the white roll of world events had been dropped like a bomb inside the lodge gates: the whole family except Nursie and Miss Amy converging to peer over each other’s shoulders, weighing possibilities, breathing again as once more disaster was averted by a hairsbreadth before dispersing about their business and letting Musgrave get on with his. Very unsettling. He had even seen the whole family in the first kitchen, drawn like hounds to fox by the scent of printers’ ink, one day, when the papers had got put on the table there, and passing on the news to housemaid and cook — anyone. They’d even all sat down together and had their elevenses that morning, master and man, mistress and maid . . . it had passed off wonderfully well, though Musgrave might have to deal with aftermaths if any of the staff got above and beyond as a result. Even the gardener’s boy had been included, standing about on the flagstones, grinning and bashful in his loamy boots, his face in a mug of tea, until Musgrave had set him to handing cake to the ladies, and seeing that he passed the plate the proper side, too. There was no need to go all to pieces because Germany had.
Musgrave himself heard the news at the Severns: their butler, Mr. Cocker, had long given him a standing invitation to listen-in to the family wireless which years ago the squire had had extended to the servants’ hall. Musgrave and Cocker enjoyed a mutual liking and esteem; upon no point of butlerhood had they yet faulted each other and now were never likely to. Their age, restriction of transport and local amenity had thrown them together upon their days off duty.
This Sunday, Musgrave, standing in the passage that led from dining-room to kitchens, ran his mind’s eye over possible neglect of any point of routine before proceeding down the avenue. The table was, as usual on this more informal day, already laid for luncheon: no callers were to be expected before afternoon, if then: the housemaids having gone home, he had instructed Sue Privett to keep all doors open against the telephone ringing and to be sharp and quick to distribute any incoming messages. You never knew. Not that they were to be looked for just now. The line to Norminister had been uncertain for days and trunk calls to and from London were at present affairs of hours-long waits and no assurance of a connection at the end of them. It was owing to the officers being recalled to Norminster, Mr. Cocker said.
His conscience clear, Musgrave made his way to Severn Court. He wished a little that he had been able on this warm morning to wear the alpaca jacket in which in his pantry he cleaned his silver, or took the air in the grounds, but a call in other halls was no occasion for slackness. Bad form.
Sitting with the staff he listened gravely to Mr. Chamberlain.
‘From eleven o’clock this morning we have been at war with Germany.’ The reception was poor, interspersed with cracklings, indistinctness, sudden silences redeemed by the apologies of announcer and the sound of that old gramophone record of the peal of bells from some ancient City church. A setter dozed by the fireplace sprawled over by a large cat, property of Mrs. Canning the housekeeper. The vegetable maid nervously stooped to stroke them. This was being one of those betwixt- and-between occasions when you didn’t know where to put your face or what to do with your hands. Social without being sociable. Like a funeral tea. She wondered if, in spite of the occasion and his higher domestic rating, she dare catch the eye of Joe Dale; but Mr. Dale was sweet on that Sue Privett, or Bessie didn’t know the signs: came back with that peacock from Delaye in a high old temper and ever since had burst out about Sue, what a proper plucked ’un she was and how she understood animals in a way she really didn’t ought, in the hall. But he was only a great gomeril of a lad that Bessie had heard Mr. Cocker himself tell Mrs. Canning would never make a footman and ought to be on the land. Otherwise, a match with Joe might lead on. Footmen became butlers in time, and on retiring took neat little publics, or got pensioned. And, gomeril or no, Joe was a man. . . .
They were all present to-day. She wondered when it was going to end, this sitting familiar with the upper servants at an unnatural time of day. Already Mrs. Canning was frowning at her slightly for fidgeting: the housekeeper’s stays creaked a little under her black silk dress.
The wireless suddenly burst into the National Anthem and they all rose instantly to their feet and stood, serious and selfconscious, until the apparatus was silent. Mrs. Canning, looking at the oleograph of Queen Victoria over the dresser, said, ‘We did better in her reign, bless her’.
‘A great loss, Mrs. Canning. One felt it personally, in a manner of speaking,’ answered Mr. Musgrave. Mr. Cocker hesitated, ‘One doesn’t quite like to suggest — but after all there’s no harm — will you smoke, Mr. Musgrave?’
The tension relaxed. ‘You’ll stay lunch, Mr. Musgrave?’
‘You’re most good, very kind indeed, but I must be getting back to the family. Well . . . this is a bad business, but I am glad we heard the worst together.’
The hou
sekeeper extended him her hand. ‘Old friends, Mr. Musgrave. No one better. Now girls, it’s time you were getting on with your work. I’ll give you a hand with the trifle, Cook, as we’re rather behind, to-day.’
2
Musgrave found Sir Edmund in the fold yard re-stapling a gate.
‘I’m sorry to say, Sir, that we are at war,’ and waited, poultry clucking round his boots, for he knew not what. There was young Mr. Stacey, now . . .
‘Oh? Ah . . . Well — it was only to be expected, Musgrave. It’ll send up the price of feed again, I’m ’fraid. Is lunch ready?’ Musgrave plodded to the kitchen gardens. There was no need to tell Miss Sapphy or Miss Jessie who had gone to church and would have heard: that left her ladyship, the Major, Miss Amy, the young ladies, and Nursie, Mrs. Hatchett and Sue.
Lady Roundelay, gingerly putting grimed hands into her cardigan sleeves, said, ‘Oh, Musgrave . . .! Oh, damn Hitler. Oh lor. Oh — well — ’ and walked with him to the house.
A Footman for the Peacock Page 14