Before Lunch

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘Build on it, eh? Certainly not,’ said Lord Stoke. ‘Wonderful thing, Lucasta, not a bit of a pig goes to waste. Hams, pork pies, roast loin, hand of pork, pig’s face, Bath chaps, pettitoes, sausages, bacon, black puddings, pigskin, leather; and that’s only a beginning. I never heard,’ said Lord Stoke, giving the sow a final prod behind her ear, ‘of anyone eating their eyes, but I daresay old Margett did. He once ate three live frogs for a wager. You wouldn’t find a man to do that now. It’s all the Education Act.’

  Lady Bond, far from being depressed by this evidence of modern decadence, once more shouted commands at her brother not to forget the meeting, and as an afterthought asked him how his cows had done.

  ‘Four firsts and the silver cup, my lady,’ said Mallow, breaking silence for the first time. ‘Good thing Mr Middleton’s Lily wasn’t showing this year, my lady, or we might have got a second. If Lily knew what she was missing, my lady, she’d be in a rare way.’

  Lord Bond who had just come up asked if there was any news of Mr Middleton’s cow, and was informed by Lord Stoke’s cowman that Mr Middleton’s cowman expected to be up all night, not being one to take any chances. Mr and Mrs Palmer now added themselves to the party. Mr Palmer’s cows had only got seconds, but his butter and cheese had secured several firsts, popularly attributed to his dairymaid having stirred the milk with a twig from Hangman’s Oak, a large, blasted tree near the common, known historically to have been so called because a certain Lucius Handiman, Gent., had in 1672 planted a number of acorns brought back by him from Virginia, of which this was the only survivor, but naturally connected in the popular mind with gibbets and a mild form of magic.

  ‘Afternoon, Bond,’ said Mr Palmer, whose success in butter and cheese had made him well-disposed towards all the world, ‘I see your bull-calf has done well. But what about that duty on mangolds, eh? I always said that third clause of the Root Vegetables Bill would mean trouble. Said so to Louise, three years ago, wasn’t it?’ he said, appealing to his wife. ‘The year Leslie’s bull got loose in our lane. I said to Louise, I see Bond has been voting against the third clause of the Root Vegetables Bill and that will mean trouble. Now they’re going to take that duty off Brazilian mangolds and where shall we be then? No, no; bad business, bad business.’

  Lord Bond said that clause was still in Committee.

  ‘We all know what that means,’ said Mr Palmer. ‘Lot of old women – no offence, Bond – that don’t know a swede from a turnip.’

  Lord Stoke said that his governor had always stood for a sliding scale duty on mangolds, and began to scratch the back of a small black pig in the next sty.

  ‘Now that we are all here,’ said Lady Bond, whose determination to stick to her point was one of her most annoying and sterling qualities, ‘what about the Pooker’s Piece meeting? I have all the invitations ready to send out for the ninth, and I think if we all made an effort to-day to interest the farmers and the local people we could work up a very good feeling. Mrs Middleton,’ she called, as that lady together with Mr Cameron came up, ‘I am sure you will help us to beat up supporters for the Pooker’s Piece meeting on the ninth. We count on your husband of course.’

  ‘Well, you know what Jack is like,’ said Mrs Middleton, acting on her usual instinct to protect her husband. ‘If he can come he will simply love to come, but he might be away.’

  ‘I shall count on you in any case,’ said Lady Bond, ‘and on Mr Cameron, I hope.’

  ‘Did you say the ninth, Lucasta?’ said Lord Stoke, suddenly taking an interest. ‘Can’t have it on the ninth.’

  Lady Bond asked why not.

  ‘Now, wait a moment, Lucasta,’ said Lord Stoke. ‘Never flog your horses. There’s something against the ninth, can’t tell you what. If I had my old note-book here I’d tell you. I find it a great help,’ said Lord Stoke, deserting the black pig and leaning his back against its pen as he addressed his circle of auditors, now swelled by several pig fanciers, ‘to jot down everything of importance in a note-book. Addresses and dates and things of that sort. I usually carry it in my breast pocket, but I suppose I forgot it to-day. Funny thing,’ said Lord Stoke, taking handfuls of small portable property out of various pockets, looking at them and putting them back again, ‘I seem to have everything else here. Must have left my note-book in my other tweed jacket. Always have two tweed jackets going at once, Palmer. Then if one wants mending or a button sewing on, I have the other to slip on. My governor taught me that. “If you are ordering one suit, Tom my boy,” he used to say, “always order two.” You wouldn’t remember that, Lucasta. You were in the nursery.’

  As Lord Stoke’s autobiography showed no signs of coming to an end, Lady Bond used a sister’s privilege and cut across what he was saying to make another appeal for the public meeting on the ninth.

  ‘The ninth,’ said Mr Palmer. ‘Louise, there is Mrs Tebben. You must tell her, Lady Bond. She will be a most enthusiastic helper.’

  Mrs Tebben, who had come by the day excursion from Worsted to Skeynes and was very hot from walking up the hill in her mackintosh, greeted everyone and said it reminded her of some pastoral scene near Vergil’s Mantua.

  ‘Banbury?’ said Lord Stoke. ‘Beastly bit of country. I bought a cow there once. Only time I’ve been really disappointed, except that time in thirty-seven when Pomfret got a mare from me ten pounds too cheap, and of course that time when —’

  Lady Bond, who was by now almost pawing the ground with impatience, said she hoped Mrs Tebben would tell everyone in Worsted about the public meeting on the ninth about Pooker’s Piece. Mrs Tebben, her face shining with damp heat and enthusiasm, said she would tell everyone, though she believed it was the Buffaloes’ Outing. And did Lady Bond, she said, know the excellent plan for reserving seats which she herself always practised?

  ‘We get so many cards of invitation for societies and private views and meetings,’ said Mrs Tebben, ‘and I keep them all, in a drawer. Then if I need a card for anything I take one of them and use the blank side of it. I have quite a collection, and if they would be of any use to you I would willingly send you some, either by post or by the train to Skeynes. They will always take small parcels and any of your people that were down at the station could pick them up. I usually make a large cross on the printed side in red or blue chalk to show that the invitation has nothing to do with the meeting in question, and then on the blank side you could write the numbers of the seats. I have had a great success with this plan at scout concerts.’

  Lady Bond thanked Mrs Tebben very much but said she would not trouble her as she did not intend to reserve seats.

  ‘Nonsense, Lucasta,’ said Lord Stoke, suddenly hearing very well. ‘Must reserve seats. How do you suppose people will hear if they come late and have to sit at the back of the hall?’

  The number and complication of the issues raised by this question appalled everyone except Mrs Tebben who said, Then they could just write Reserved on some of the biggest cards, for instance the cards of which she and her husband had not been able to make use for the Royal Academy Soirée, the Conversazione of the Royal Society and an invitation to a reception at the Liverpool Guildhall, though why they had been invited to that she had never been able to make out.

  ‘And now,’ she added, ‘I shall visit the exhibits and then I must get the 4.10 back, as our good Mrs Phipps is out to-night and I must be the cook. Just an omelette, made in a delightfully economical way with hardly any butter and a little chopped parsley out of the garden, and the cold semolina pudding cut into slices in a glass dish with some of my home-made rhubarb jam. I can’t tell you how much my husband enjoyed his visit to your excavations, Lord Stoke. He hasn’t been able to talk about anything else since.’

  ‘Not able to talk, eh?’ said Lord Stoke. ‘What’s wrong? Talked all right the day he lunched with me. Tonsils, I expect. You ought to take him to Slattery. He’s the man for tonsils. Has ’em out as soon as look at you.’

  But Mrs Tebben was so occupied with good-by
es to everyone that she did not hear him.

  ‘I shall take off my mackintosh and carry it,’ she said brightly. ‘Now that the rain has stopped I find it hardly necessary. Good-bye, good-bye. I shall not forget the cards, Lady Bond.’

  She went briskly off towards the big tent and the Palmers followed her. Mrs Middleton asked whether Miss Starter was at the Show. Lady Bond explained, rather proudly, that her guest could not go near cows without getting hay fever, so she was spending the afternoon resting in preparation for the dinner party that night.

  ‘C.W. ought to be here,’ said her ladyship. ‘He was going to drive over from Rushwater House where he spent the weekend with the Leslies and said he would come to the Show before he went home. He felt, rightly, that he ought to show that he takes an interest. Oh, Mrs Stonor, there you are again. You haven’t seen C.W. anywhere, have you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Stonor. ‘Denis and I saw him in the cow enclosure. He said he was going to look for you.’

  And even as she spoke young Mr Bond came up. He had already learnt from Denis that Daphne was not at the Show and did not quite know if he was sorry or glad. He had spent so much time trying not to think about her that he had thought of very little else, and while one half of him wished to show proper pride, aversion and scorn, the other half wanted nothing better than to cast itself at her feet and offer her its heart and hand. And if anyone disbelieves the strength of young Mr Bond’s attachment, we can only say that even the thought of what his mother might say did not weigh with him in the slightest degree. He congratulated his father and his uncle on their various successes and enquired from Mrs Middleton about the cow Lily’s health.

  ‘Pucken says he is going to sit up all night with her,’ said Mrs Middleton. ‘I don’t think there is any real need to, but he enjoys it. He takes a lot of old sacks and a can of tea and some bread and fat bacon down to the cowshed and gets away from Mrs Pucken. If it weren’t for your dinner party I expect Daphne would be there too.’

  ‘I could easily run her over if she is really keen,’ said young Mr Bond eagerly, but Mrs Middleton made a noncommittal reply.

  The sky, which had been lowering hideously for the last half-hour, now made up its mind to spoil the rest of the Agricultural Show as thoroughly as possible. Heavy drops came spattering across the ground on a chill gust. Mrs Tebben put on her mackintosh again, saying gaily that she must foot it swiftly to the station. The Palmers said Rubbish, they would take her home in the car, which they very kindly did, while Mrs Tebben discussed with herself at great length whether the railway company would refund anything on the return of a day excursion ticket, price one and sevenpence halfpenny. It was not till Mr Palmer had pointed out that the day return cost exactly as much as an ordinary single that she was at all appeased, but the subject rankled and she was able to continue it, as what she called a purely academic discussion, with her husband over the economical omelette and the cold semolina pudding.

  Young Mr Bond offered to drive Mrs Stonor home, hoping to see Daphne, but Mrs Stonor said she was so wet she would rather walk. The Bonds were just moving to their car when Lord Stoke, who despised all forms of weather and intended to finish doing the Show thoroughly, called them back.

  ‘What is it, Tom?’ said Lady Bond. ‘Be quick, because Ferguson doesn’t like to be kept waiting when it’s raining.’

  ‘Remember I said something about the ninth?’ said Lord Stoke, turning his coat collar up. ‘It came to me just now what it was. I knew there was something wrong with that day.’

  ‘Well, you must come, Tom, whatever it is,’ said his sister.

  ‘You remember old Uncle Fred?’ said Lord Stoke. ‘No, you wouldn’t; before your time. He died when I was a youngster. The governor was very fond of him and Uncle Fred left him those Chinese Chippendale cabinets. The money all went to his children – illegitimate of course, but blood’s thicker than water. I saw the boy not long ago. When I say boy, he’s about my age and doing very well on the Stock Exchange. Don’t know what happened to the girl, married a feller in India, I think. Well, as I was saying,’ he continued, suddenly becoming aware of his sister’s expression, who looked as if she would like to run him through with her shooting stick. ‘Uncle Henry never liked the number nine. His unlucky number. No accounting for these things. I knew I’d remember what it was.’

  His lordship then went off to look at a ploughing contest.

  The walk back to Laverings was far from pleasant. The lane was shoe-deep in slippery clay, the wind lashed hair and hat furiously and penetrated with icy breath Mrs Stonor’s shabby old tweed coat. Mr Cameron, who was walking beside her, had one of his shoes sucked off in a particularly sticky rut and swore violently under his breath as he tried to get it on again. As they turned the last corner a blast met them that nearly took Mrs Stonor off her feet and she was thankful to clutch Mr Cameron’s coat sleeve to steady herself, so he quite naturally went into the White House with her.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ said Mrs Stonor, taking off her hat and coat and kicking her shoes into a corner. ‘You’d better stay to tea, Alister, and I’ll have your shoes dried. I’ll just go and see if Daphne is coming down. Denis must have gone back with Catherine.’

  She ran upstairs and came back with a pair of Denis’s shoes for Mr Cameron and the news that Daphne would be down in about half an hour. Palfrey brought in the tea and took away the wet shoes.

  ‘Alister,’ said Mrs Stonor, so suddenly that he nearly jumped. But having let loose this word, she appeared unable to go on.

  ‘Yes?’ said Mr Cameron, eating a cake that he didn’t want.

  ‘Alister,’ said Mrs Stonor again. ‘It is dreadful to talk like a parent, but after all there is no one else to do it and though Denis is really the head of the family he is even less her parent than I am.’

  ‘It is certainly very difficult to think of you as a parent,’ said Mr Cameron. ‘You don’t look fit to be responsible for Denis and Daphne.’

  ‘I really do my best,’ said Mrs Stonor apologetically.

  ‘Good God, I don’t mean that,’ said Mr Cameron. ‘I mean – I really don’t know what I mean. I’d better go back to Laverings.’

  ‘But I must say it before you go,’ said Mrs Stonor. ‘Your engagement with Daphne. It was to be put in The Times after the Agricultural.’

  ‘What does Daphne say?’ asked the fervent lover.

  ‘She won’t talk about it at all,’ said Mrs Stonor mournfully. ‘She always says wait a few days. I did mention it to her just now and she said to ask you. And will you please tell me what to do.’

  Mr Cameron looked at her with despair. Mrs Stonor suddenly felt her heart wrung with anguish for all the muddle, and because in spite of all her vagueness she had a very clear mind about people she loved, she saw that her concern was far more for Alister Cameron’s happiness than for the happiness of her much-loved Daphne. Then she was so ashamed of this revelation that she sat quite silent, in a violent storm of confusion. Mr Cameron, looking at her, allowed himself to know what he had known ever since the day among the pea-sticks, and wondered exactly how deeply Lilian Stonor would despise him if she knew. As soon as Daphne would make up her mind he would put the engagement in The Times and pray that Lilian would never know the disloyalty of his heart. That Daphne might ever suspect it did not occur to him at all.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Stonor at last, in a conversational voice, ‘people occasionally make mistakes.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Cameron. ‘And then they have to back up their mistakes like gentlemen, or as near gentlemen as possible. Would you mind if I went now, Lilian?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Stonor, not looking at him.

  So he went into the hall and suddenly finding that he had Denis’s shoes on, went to the kitchen to ask for his own. Lou was alone, keeping guard for Palfrey who had gone off to the Show as soon as she had brought tea in.

  ‘Are my shoes here, Lou?’ said Mr Cameron. ‘And why aren’t you at the Show?’

 
‘I’m going to-night, Mr Cameron,’ said Lou, reverently fetching his shoes from the kitchen fender. ‘It’s lovely at night with the lights and the boys throwing crackers. Excuse me asking, Mr Cameron, but aren’t you going to say nothing? I mean about you and Miss Daphne? I never said a word, the way you told me.’

  ‘Quite soon, Lou, I expect,’ said Mr Cameron, tying his damp shoes. ‘You’ve been a good girl.’

  ‘Miss Palfrey and Mother and me always thought it was to be young Mr Bond,’ said Lou, emboldened by her hero’s praise and the delightful intimacy of a tête-à-tête in the kitchen. ‘Miss Daphne seemed quite taken by him. She had his photo under her pillow, because I found it one day when I was helping Mother make the beds, but I hid it away ever so quick, so Mother shouldn’t see, in Miss Daphne’s handkerchief drawer. I hope I did right,’ she added anxiously, seeing a peculiar expression on Mr Cameron’s face.

  ‘Quite right, Lou,’ said Mr Cameron.

  ‘You hadn’t ought to sit in those wet shoes, Mr Cameron,’ said Lou as her guest rose to depart.