Fire in the Thatch

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “Oh no, I shan’t. I know all about condensation on stone floors. I was brought up in Westmorland,” said Vaughan. “Is there another bedroom? These four don’t account for all the floor space down below.”

  “Quite right. There’s another bedroom over the kitchen, with its own stairs.”

  “Two stairways, by gum! Quite an establishment. That’ll suit me fine. I can camp out over the kitchen while I get the rest of the house into order. I can see myself being busy for some time to come.”

  St Cyres hesitated, and then said: “How’ll you manage about housekeeping? I’ve told you, it’s next to impossible to get labour or domestic service.”

  “Domestic service be blowed! I’ll manage for myself, pro tem.”

  “That’s all very well, but a man needs a bit of comfort after a hard day on the land,” said St Cyres. “Haven’t you a sister, or anybody who’d housekeep for you?”

  Vaughan laughed: that same merry grin which lit up his long face and contradicted its saturnine expression.

  “Sister? I can see mine coming here! She’s a hundred per cent intellectual. No. I shall do for myself. You needn’t be afraid I shall make a mess of it. I’m a much more competent housewife than many of the womenfolk I know.”

  “It’ll be a dull life for you,” said St Cyres in his conscientious way. “There’s no young society hereabouts. I’ve got a daughter, but she’s a busy girl—she runs the house and helps on the farm, and we don’t find time to entertain.”

  “Now look here, sir,” replied Vaughan. “Let’s get this straight. I’m not a sociable character. I like working on the land, I like painting doors and walls and all that, and I’m interested in books. I’ve got quite a number. If you want a sociable tenant to brighten country life, count me out. I’m about as sociable as a hermit crab—but I’ll bring this place into cultivation again, and make the house as good as it’s capable of being—which is very good. I can give you sound references, but I won’t undertake to attend whist drives or play bridge, or dance or go to garden parties, or do anything in that line. What about it?”

  “My dear chap, I don’t want you to play bridge, or to dance—I loathe bridge and modern dancing—but a fellow of your age wants something better than a fried sausage for supper and a bed over the kitchen.”

  “Leave that to me. In confidence—and I mean in confidence—I’m meaning to get married some time, and when I’m colour washing walls and painting doors, I shall be doing it with an end in view.”

  St Cyres’ face cleared. “That’s a different story,” he said. “I wish you all the luck in the world—but this house isn’t everybody’s money. No water laid on, no electricity, no indoors sanitation. Most modern young women would find it anathema. Why not bring your wife-to-be to see it? It’s only fair to give her a say in the matter before you decide on it.”

  Again Vaughan laughed: “My wife-to-be, as you style her, isn’t a modern young woman—not in your sense. The woman who marries me will know what she’s in for, and that’s hard work. Incidentally, I’m not such a mutt as to want to show any woman this house as it stands, with all that foul colour wash and decayed chocolate paint. You wait till I’ve done with it and it’s gleaming cream and honey colour; when there’s an engine for pumping water and a plant for electric light. I’ve got enough capital to make this house a good home—if you give me a square deal and an assured tenancy.”

  “I’ll give you a square deal all right,” said St Cyres, “but think it over before you decide. I tell you frankly I can’t do what I should like to do—that is, get the garden clean and the orchards into order, and I can’t get the house done up for the same reason—there’s no labour to be had. All the builders are working under the Essential Works order, and all the farmers are short-handed. Here’s my offer. I’ll let you the house, garden and orchards as they stand for the same rent old Timothy Yeo paid me—that is £26 a year, and I’ll rent you the pasture and meadow below the garden at current agricultural rates. I’m prepared to offer you a good tenancy and option of renewal. Think it over: if you still like it after you’ve considered it, ring up my lawyer in Exeter—old Bodlesham—and he’ll get an agreement made out.”

  “That’s all right,” said Vaughan, “but listen to me. If I’m to get that garden fit for anything this summer, I’ve got to get on to it now. It’s good soil, but it’s foul with couch grass and gout weed and every pest under the sun—and the soil’s starved. You tell your lawyer to get busy on the agreement: I won’t hustle him—but give me your word I can have the place and let me go on to it straight away. I can’t afford to waste a week if I’m to get a crop out of this land this year—and you know that as well as I do. I’ve got an option on an engine for the pump and I’ve got my eye on an electric plant. Let me go right ahead. Your word’s as good as a lawyer’s deed, I know that.”

  St Cyres was not a man who liked to be hustled, but seeing the eagerness on the other’s face, he made up his mind then and there.

  “Very well,” he replied. “If you want it you can have it—but remember I’ve told you all the drawbacks. There’s no water main nearer than three miles—and not likely to be—and the same applies to sewerage. The nearest electricity supply is two miles away. The house is ancient, and those cob walls won’t stand much knocking about—but it’s weather worthy, the fabric’s sound and the thatch rainproof. As for the garden—it’s been neglected these ten years, but it’s on some of the most fertile land in the county.”

  “Right. It’s what I want; provided the water’s here and you’ll allow me a free hand in cultivation—putting up some glass and a shack for my car, I’ll take it—or buy it.”

  “No. I won’t sell, but I’ll give you an assured tenancy—and good luck to you.”

  “Thanks. I won’t let you down,” replied Vaughan.

  2

  When Colonel St Cyres went home, he left the keys of Little Thatch with his new tenant so that Vaughan could study the house at his leisure. Once alone in the place, Vaughan went carefully through the house, examining walls and windows, cupboards and floors. The more he studied it, the more he liked it. It was plain to any man who cared about old houses that this squat sturdy building could make a beautiful and comfortable home to anybody who cared for living and working in the country and who was not deterred by the lack of urban amenities. Having studied the house in detail, Vaughan went outside and put the door key in his pocket with an expression of serene content on his face. Then, taking off his old Burberry, with a grin of sheer delight, he took the fork and began to trench the ground in front of the cottage. The night’s frost was only a hoar frost—it had not penetrated the ground—and Vaughan found the soil light and workable beneath the matt of grass and weed. In the narrow beds beneath the cottage windows long-stemmed violets defied the frost, winter jasmine shone in sprays of clearest chrome yellow and aconites spread their green frills to the sun. Lighting his pipe, Vaughan began to plan out his garden: cold frames and some glass against the linhey, tomatoes on the long southward slope, potatoes and root crops in the lower beds. Some wattle fencing and fruit cages when he could get them—and all the apple trees needed pruning and spraying and banding. As he dug, he planned out his land, thought of the best way of investing his capital in it, pondering over pump and piping, electric plant and wiring, some heating for the greenhouse, and as he cogitated, his face was the face of a very contented man.

  Chapter Three

  1

  It was on New Year’s Day that Nicholas Vaughan took possession of Little Thatch. Just before midday he drove through the narrow Devonshire lanes in his old car, piloting a disreputable lorry which followed him round awkward corners and blind bends. The lorry belonged to the nearest coal merchant, and in it was half a ton of coal in addition to a camp-bed, some chairs and tables, a number of packing cases, garden tools, and miscellaneous cooking pots. Vaughan chuckled to himself over his home-coming—
never had a less impressive moving-in ceremony been performed. Transport was at a premium, so he had taken the simplest way of moving those of his belongings he wanted immediately—loaded them into the coal-lorry along with the coal. When he opened the kitchen door and went inside a surprise awaited him. There was a good fire burning in the range, the floor was scrubbed and clean, and on the wide window sill stood a big loaf of bread, a can of milk, and a big pasty. As he stood staring, footsteps sounded on the cobbles and a woman’s figure appeared at the door.

  “Good-morning, Mr. Vaughan. I’m Anne St Cyres. I haven’t come to bother you—just to say that if you want anything or if you’re in a fix we’re only a few hundred yards away, so please come and ask. Good luck to you in your new house.”

  “Thank you very much. It’s very good of you—and thank you for all this—”

  “Not a bit. You’re miles from a shop here. The baker won’t call till Wednesday and the butcher comes on Friday. You can get milk at Lane’s farm in the valley. There’s a barrel of cider in the larder which my father sent with his best wishes…oh, there’s Timothy Yeo’s cat again. It won’t stay with anybody else because it’s always lived here. Do you hate cats?”

  “No. I like them. That’s a fine chap. I’ll keep him all right.”

  “Good. He’s a grand ratter. Good-bye for now—and good luck.”

  She turned and walked away before Vaughan had time for another word, and he bent and stroked the big marmalade-coloured cat, muttering to himself, “Decent of them, jolly decent of them,” as the lorry man came in at the door carrying an armful of pots.

  “Want these in here, mister?” he asked, and the cat sat down sedately by the fire while Vaughan went out to lend a hand in carrying his modest goods and chattels into Little Thatch.

  2

  “He’s a competent looking young man, Daddy.”

  Anne St Cyres laughed a little as she spoke to her father just after lunch that day, and St Cyres nodded.

  “Yes. Wilton gave him a very good character, and I like him myself. Business-like and shrewd, and ready to work hard—just the type of fellow to do well in the country, and he’s used to country conditions. I hope he won’t find it too lonely.”

  “Well, he told you he wasn’t a sociable character, didn’t he? You can go in and have a word with him some time, you’ll soon notice if he seems hipped. I don’t think he’d have taken on a place like Little Thatch if he didn’t like being alone. Although I hardly exchanged a dozen words with him he gave me the impression that he knew his own mind all right. I’m glad he’s moved in straight away. I only heard this morning that June’s friends, the Gressinghams, have come to stay at Hinton Mallory. Mrs. Hesling’s taking them as paying guests.”

  “Good gad! What’s a wealthy stockbroker going to do to amuse himself staying in a farmhouse?”

  Anne linked her arm in her father’s and drew him further along the terrace.

  “I suppose he’s still thinking of buying a place down here—but, as we know, there’s nothing on the market. I don’t think he’ll be successful. Anyway, I’d rather have him at Hinton Mallory than at Little Thatch.”

  St Cyres nodded, but he looked troubled. “Yes…I see what you mean—but I’d rather he weren’t here at all. I don’t like the idea of town dwellers buying up country properties and using them as playthings. I know the stockbroker type…speculators, all of them, no sense of responsibility to the land. In any case, this part of England is the last locality a man like Gressingham would choose unless he had some ulterior motive in coming here.”

  “His motive is obvious—he comes here because June is here. She asked him to come. You can’t blame her for wanting to see something of her own friends, Daddy. She’s wretchedly bored—”

  “Why doesn’t she do something, then?” broke out St Cyres. “There was never a time in the world’s history when there was more need for men and women of goodwill to work together to justify their existence—and justify their privileges, too.”

  “Yes, that’s perfectly true,” replied Anne, in her serene, sensible voice, “but it’s not easy to find a job fitted to one’s limitations when one is transplanted into a strange environment. If I were to find myself in a service flat in Mayfair, complete with central heating and a restaurant for meals, I’m perfectly certain I should feel useless and confused, and probably I should mope and grumble—and so would you! Imagine living in a single room flatlet like the one June was describing last night.”

  “Heaven forbid!” exclaimed St Cyres. “Personally I’d rather perish—but no one’s forced to live in those damned rabbit hutches in London, Anne.”

  “Some people adore them, Daddy. It’s no use expecting everyone to like the same things. They don’t. The evacuee business ought to have taught us that. We saw Londoners pitchforked into the country, and they loathed it. It was only the children who liked it, the grown women were bored and miserable, as June is bored and miserable, and it’s better to try to understand her point of view. I’m glad for her sake that she’s got someone she likes to talk to, although I’m sorry that I don’t like her friends. It seems mean of me, somehow.”

  “Rubbish! She doesn’t like your friends, does she?—or try to be polite to them. Do you remember when old Mrs. Mansfield came that day…?”

  “Shall I ever forget it?” laughed Anne. “All the same I think you’d better go and call on Mr. Gressingham, Daddy. Just stroll in some time and ask him if he’d care for some rough shooting. There are lots of wild duck up the valley.”

  “Me call on Gressingham, Anne? Why on earth should I?”

  “To stop people talking, dad. You know how the country gossips. If June is always running along to see the Gressinghams and we aren’t even polite to them, tongues are going to wag. It’s no use Mother going—she couldn’t bear them—but everyone knows she never goes out in winter. I’ll look in some time, just for manners—but you’ve got to do the thing properly. I may have my own private opinion about June—I’ll admit that to you—but I’m not going to have the farmers’ wives gossiping about her if I can help it. It’s not dignified and it’s unpleasant.”

  “I see,” said St Cyres, and his voice sounded doleful, but he went on: “but this man Gressingham’s got his wife with him, hasn’t he? He’s not there alone?”

  “She came down with him, and I gather she’s to be there on and off. She has a job of sorts—something to do with ambulance driving. It sounded to me one of those comfortable jobs where you show up if you want to—and get plenty of petrol coupons to reach your job with. She’s pretty frightful, Daddy—from our point of view. What you’d call a hundred per cent Jezebel. She wears wine-coloured slacks and a fur coat. If you go in after tea to-day you’ll miss her: she went away this morning.”

  “You seem to know all about them, Anne.”

  “Yes. I’m quite well-informed,” said Anne, and for once her voice sounded edgy. “I’ve heard about them from everybody: June herself, then from Mrs. Hesling who came up here to talk about the ducks—or so she pretended—then from old Dickon when he was bringing the coal in, and from Tom Ridd when he brought the potatoes in, and from the post-girl. Oh, everyone’s talking about them, Daddy. That’s why you’ve got to try to be polite.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then St Cyres said: “I don’t like it, Anne. If June’s going to import people like that here the sooner she goes back to London the better. If it’s a question of money, I could…”

  “It’s not a question of money—not from my point of view,” replied Anne. “I’ve always been straight with you, Daddy, and I’ll be straight with you now. June’s bored: she married Denis because she wanted a husband to satisfy the demands of her own vitality. She’s a creature of sex, and her husband’s a prisoner of war and she’s left stranded. If we send June back to London to live her own life, I’m certain she’ll be some man’s mistress before six months are up
. That’s my opinion—but I’ve good grounds for stating it. If we keep her here we can keep her straight—or try to—and look Denis in the face when he comes home.”

  St Cyres was silent. Anne very seldom spoke as she was speaking now, but he trusted her judgment. At last he said: “Very well. I’ll look in at Hinton Mallory after tea.”

  “Good,” she replied. “I’m sure it’s the right thing to do. Go at half-past five and I’ll come and rescue you before six.”

  And with that she left him, and St Cyres chewed over his thoughts miserably as he sorted apples in the apple-house.

  3

  Hinton Mallory was one of the largest farmhouses in the district. One of Colonel St Cyres’ friends who had stayed with him recently had said: “If Mallory Fitzjohn were on a bus route or near a station you’d have become a show place, Colonel. I haven’t seen a finer group of houses in the county.”

  “Thank God we’re not on a bus route then, and that our roads will never tempt the motoring week-enders,” St Cyres had replied.

  “The Mallorys”—as the group was described locally—consisted of three big houses with attendant cottages. Manor Thatch—the St Cyres’ home—was the “great house” of the group: attached to it was Little Thatch and three small labourers’ cottages. A few hundred yards from Manor Thatch was the Old Vicarage, now used as a farmhouse, with Church Cottages near by. Manor Thatch with its attendant cottages, the Church and Vicarage Farm made up Mallory Fitzjohn. Hinton Mallory was in the valley below, and Upton Mallory lay across the river.