“Changed his mind!”
“Yes, he has eight days’ leave and has decided to stay at Tocher and fish for salmon instead of rushing about the country and trying to find his wife. I said I was delighted to hear it—and so I am. A week’s fishing will do him a lot of good.”
“But, Tony—”
“Besides,” says Tony, talking me down. “Besides it suits me admirably. He and Stannard can flog the river to their hearts content and be as gloomy as they please. When you feel gloomy a gloomy companion is the best kind of companion to have.”
“I don’t agree.”
“You’re wrong,” declares Tony. “They went off together this morning simply wallowing in gloom. It’s the best thing for both of them, and—”
“He ought to do something about his wife. It seems so—so odd—”
“It seemed a little odd to me—just at first,” admits Tony. “But when I thought about it . . . we’re old-fashioned, Hester. The young of today are a bit ruthless, perhaps, but they see things clearly. They have the courage to cut their losses. Ovens said to me, ‘If she likes the other fellow better, what’s the good of me going after her and trying to get her back? There’s no reason why I should, is there?’ That’s what he said—and I couldn’t think of any reason why he should, can you?”
“Yes, I can. She’s probably regretting it by this time.”
“That’s no reason at all,” says Tony firmly. “She knew exactly what she was doing. He’s better to let her go.”
It is no use trying to argue with Tony; he is far too clever and can make rings round me whenever he likes. Besides I am now half convinced that Tony is right which makes argument even more difficult.
“Don’t worry about them,” says Tony, smiling. “She’s a little wretch, not half good enough for Ovens. You’re worrying about them because you’re thinking of your own marriage and what it means to you and Tim. Their marriage meant practically nothing.”
Saturday is always a busy day so I have no time to talk further with Tony until the evening when we foregather in the lounge for coffee.
“This is a pleasant place,” Tony remarks. “The country is lovely and the house very comfortable indeed. In fact ‘Every prospect pleases . . .’ You can complete the quotation.”
“Not vile, Tony,” I reply. “Some of them are a bit weird of course, but—”
At this moment we are interrupted by Mr. Whitesmith, who approaches wearing a toothy smile and asks if the Brigadier will join in a game of bridge.
“Very good of you,” says Tony, “but the fact is I am a little tired tonight and intend to go to bed early. Early to bed and late to rise,” says Tony seriously. “Those are my doctor’s orders—and before I retire I like a little female society as I find it induces health-giving slumber.”
“But, bless me, it’s only—only twenty past eight!” exclaims Mr. Whitesmith, snapping open his watch and consulting it.
Tony also consults his watch (which he wears on his wrist) and says he makes it twenty-three and a half minutes past.
“It makes no difference,” says Mr. Whitesmith.
“On the contrary,” replies Tony. “If you were catching a train it might make all the difference.”
Mr. Whitesmith is too persistent to be ridden off like this. “The night is young,” he says. “We shall easily get in a couple of rubbers before you go to bed.”
“I play very slowly,” Tony objects.
“Yes, but—”
“Very slowly,” repeats Tony. “Bridge is a game requiring intense thought.”
Mr. Whitesmith is doubtful how to take this statement. He hesitates and then looks at me and says it is just a friendly game, nothing very scientific about it.
As I am aware that Tony is an absolute tiger at bridge I am not surprised to see a slight shudder pass through his frame.
“Why not have a try, Brigadier?” says Mr. Whitesmith persuasively. “We play very low.”
“Why not try?” I repeat, trying not to smile.
“It is no use,” says Tony sadly. “I am not in the vein . . . I’ll take you on at backgammon if you like.”
This offer does not attract Mr. Whitesmith.
“Or spillikens,” says Tony. “Are you keen on spillikens?”
Mr. Whitesmith takes this quite well. “Bar jokes, Brigadier,” he says. “The fact is we need a fourth.”
“It is extraordinary,” says Tony in a conversational tone. “It really is a most extraordinary thing how often people seem to need a fourth. Three people are constantly getting together, desirous to indulge in a hand of cards; but the fourth is missing, the fourth is reluctant, the fourth wishes to read or converse or drink or go to bed . . . or, in the case of a female, to turn the heel of a stocking or finish off the hem of some garment unmentionable in mixed company. It seems to me that if someone could invent a card game in which three people—and three people only—could take part, that man would earn the undying gratitude of a vast number of his fellow creatures.”
“Yes, but nobody has, Brigadier.”
“Nobody has,” agrees Tony. “How strange that nobody has! Surely it is not beyond the powers of a nation which evolved the mulberry, which perfected radar and helped to discover the atom bomb.”
“You will have your little joke, Brigadier, but as a matter of fact bridge is good enough for me.”
“And you, Mr. Whitebread, are good enough for bridge,” replies Tony, smiling at him in a friendly manner.
Mr. Whitesmith does not know what to make of this (neither do I for that matter). He looks at the ceiling for inspiration and then looks at me and says he’s sure the Brigadier is a bridge-man. And I, feeling that the joke has gone far enough and that Mr. Whitesmith deserves a little consideration, reply that the Brigadier is very fond of bridge, but as he is of a temperamental disposition it is no good trying to persuade him to play if he doesn’t feel that way inclined.
“Ah—temperamental!” exclaims Mr. Whitesmith sympathetically—and goes away.
“Thank you, Hester,” says Tony in a faint voice.
“Don’t mention it, Tony.”
“Temperamental is a useful word. I must remember it for future occasions. It had a most extraordinary effect upon Mr. Whitehouse, hadn’t it? All the more extraordinary because it means nothing.”
“It means swayed by moods.”
“No, Hester, dear. It means nothing of the sort. Temperamental simply means appertaining to the temperament. The temperament may be choleric, lymphatic, nervous or sanguine. They all sound unpleasant, don’t they? But perhaps when you said I was temperamental you really meant I was suffering from tempera—a form of distemper.”
“Not that kind of distemper!” I exclaim.
“Yes,” says Tony. “Yes, that’s what you meant. I am suffering from tempera—no wonder I feel disinclined to play bridge. Please explain this to Mr. Whiteheart at your leisure.”
“Whitesmith,” I murmur.
“Whitebridge,” says Tony firmly. “Whitebridge is the name.”
Meantime Mr. Whitesmith has succeeded in capturing a fourth in the shape of Mrs. Maloney—she is his last resort—and having caused the table to be brought he produces the cards and the gamesters cut for partners and take their seats. Mr. Whitesmith has drawn Mrs. Maloney; Mr. Stannard and Miss Dove make up the four.
As they have settled quite near I suggest to Tony that we should move, but Tony replies he hasn’t been to a pantomime for years and remains firmly seated.
Each of the players has his or her own peculiar manner of playing which makes it very interesting to watch. Miss Dove is an adept. She pauses for a moment and then plays without hesitation; Mr. Stannard is careful and concentrated as befits a businessman; Mrs. Maloney fumbles, hesitates, changes her mind and makes a running commentary upon the game; Mr. Whitesmith smacks down his card in a determined manner as if he were saying, “Take that, and make the best of it.” But the fun really starts when the game is over and Mr. Whitesmith starts raki
ng the ashes for his partner’s benefit, and commenting bitterly upon her lack of skill.
“Look,” says Mr. Whitesmith earnestly. “See here, Mrs. Maloney, if you’d played the king of diamonds Miss Dove would have been squeezed and forced to relinquish a heart giving up her guard in that suit. You see that, don’t you? If you’d done that what would have happened next?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” says Mrs. Maloney faintly.
“You’d have continued with the king of spades and squeezed Stannard, because of course he couldn’t have parted with a diamond without making your seven a master, so Stannard would have had to discard a heart and left himself unguarded in that suit. You had that double squeeze up your sleeve,” says Mr. Whitesmith reproachfully.
“Had I?” says Mrs. Maloney in a bewildered manner.
“Then of course,” says Mr. Whitesmith, warming to his theme. “Then of course you can get down to it. You’ve cleared the air and the whole thing is plain sailing. You lead the nine of hearts and finesse the queen, the ace drops the king and that gives us our contract.”
“But she didn’t,” says Mr. Stannard, showing some anxiety—and indeed Mr. Whitesmith is now looking so pleased with himself that some anxiety seems justifiable—“Mrs. Maloney didn’t play like that at all, so you haven’t made your contract.”
“I’m telling her what she ought to have done,” explains Mr. Whitesmith.
“How could I know Mr. Stannard hadn’t any more spades?” objects Mrs. Maloney. “I mean it’s easy to say afterwards I ought to have done this or that, but for all I knew Mr. Stannard might have had the ace of spades and taken my king.”
“You had the ace yourself,” says Miss Dove with a titter. “You played it in the second round, Mrs. Maloney.”
“Excuse me, you had the ace,” says Mr. Stannard to Miss Dove.
“I!” cries Miss Dove indignantly. “Indeed I had not. Do you think I don’t know what cards I held?”
“Perhaps there wasn’t an ace,” suggests Mrs. Maloney in conciliatory tones.
Her three companions look at her in amazement.
“I mean it may have fallen on the floor,” she explains.
“You had it and played it,” says Miss Dove firmly and she begins to scrabble amongst the tricks.
“Oh well, perhaps I had,” says Mrs. Maloney—who is all for appeasement. “It wasn’t trumps, was it? I mean spades wasn’t trumps. I should have remembered if I had had the ace of trumps,” declares Mrs. Maloney smugly.
Tony is shaking with laughter and I decide it is time for us to move.
Am sitting in the lounge after breakfast when Tony comes in and enquires what duties fall to a hotel assistant on Sunday mornings. I reply none, and add that I intend to go to the Episcopal Church at Ryddelton. Tony says good, he will have the Bentley at the door in half an hour. I am about to ask him whether he really wants to come but remembering in time that Tony likes churchgoing I refrain and the thing is settled.
The day is dull and cloudy, a soft mist covers the hill-tops and it rains gently now and then, but after the long spell of golden sunshine there is something very refreshing about this gentle rain. Tony says that it makes him feel a new man—he has not seen rain like this for years—and the birds are enjoying it, too, for they are singing madly when we set forth in the car. The buds on the trees are ready to burst and the hedges are faintly green.
The church is moderately well-filled but the congregation consists mostly of middle-aged or elderly people. Are there so few young people in Ryddelton, or is it because the younger generation thinks church-going an unnecessary rite? I cannot help wondering what will happen when in due course these people die . . . will the younger generation, which will then be middle-aged, acquire the habit of attending Divine Worship? If not it seems probable that church-going will lapse completely and our churches will fall into ruins.
These thoughts sadden me. I try to remember my own feelings about churchgoing when I was very young and am forced to admit (if I am entirely honest with myself) that I went to church in those far-off days only because I was taken. The modern child is allowed more freedom and stays at home, so the habit of church-going is not acquired . . . should children be dragged to church willy-nilly, or should they be left at home in the hopes that, later, they will choose to go of their own accord? I decide regretfully that the problem is too difficult for me to solve.
During the sermon I glance at Tony and note that he is listening with rapt attention—and I remember he once told me he enjoyed sermons, and that no sermon, however long, was too long for him. This sermon could bore nobody. It is interesting and well-thought-out and earnestly delivered in a pleasant melodious voice. Mr. Weir gives us two texts: the first is from Isaiah, “For I, the Lord thy God will hold thy right hand saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee”; the second from the Epistle to the Hebrews, “Cast not away, therefore, your confidence which hath great recompense of reward.” He asks us to note that these two texts taken in conjunction give us a promise of help and a piece of good advice, both of which are more than ever necessary in these troubled and unsettled times. Many people are full of unrest, and go through life burdened and miserable, beset by fears and doubts. These nervous disorders are the maladies of today, very serious maladies for which medicine can find no cure. If a cure could be found, if some clever chemist could invent a patent medicine which would banish fear, and make people happy and confident, everybody would flock to buy it and would persevere with it, steadily, grudging neither the trouble nor the expense. It would need no persuasion to induce people to take a course of the wonderful tablets, but no patent medicine will avail. There is a cure, of course. It is quite a simple cure and open to everybody. It is confidence in God.
Many people believe in God, says Mr. Weir, but often their belief is feeble—it is a milk-and-water belief which does not help them in the stress and strain of life. Others have lost all confidence and say so openly—but have they really tried religion? Have they tried it with the same resolution as they would try a patent medicine? Have they persevered with it steadily day after day?
Mr. Weir pauses and then says, “Have they tried giving their right hand to God?”
Man needs God, says Mr. Weir. There is a great recompense of reward for those who walk with God—perhaps the greatest is serenity. Man has always needed God. Savages who had no knowledge of God found they needed some sort of Divine Being to worship, so they invented idols and worshipped them. Take God away from man and you take a vital necessity from his life; he is like a lost child, crying in the dark, he is sick and does not know the cause of his sickness. But God is patient, God is waiting for him with a true and living promise: “For I, the Lord thy God, will hold thy right hand, saying unto thee, Fear not; I will help thee.”
When we come out Tony says he thinks it would be a good idea to have a chat with the padre, and without waiting for my reaction—which is reluctance—he leads the way to the vestry and opens the door. Mr. Weir is discovered in the act of removing his surplice and when he emerges from its folds he seems somewhat taken aback to find two complete strangers looking at him; but Tony is equal to the occasion, he explains who we are and adds that he has just got back from India and is thoroughly enjoying the rain.
One thing leads to another and in a few moments the two men are deep in conversation about eastern religions. Mr. Weir has studied them in theory and Tony has first-hand knowledge of the subject, acquired during his travels in India and China, so they have plenty to tell one another and become quite excited. They discuss Lao-Tse, who founded Taoism, and agree that his teaching had much in common with the teaching of Christ.
“The Taoist lives in the present,” says Mr. Weir nodding. “He takes no thought for the morrow, he practises humility and simplicity and is taught to return good for evil. How curious to think that these virtues were prized two centuries before Christ!”
Tony says St. Paul had a knowledge of Taoism and produces chapter and verse to
bear out his contention. St. Paul bore his persecutions and afflictions with patience and used them to increase his spiritual stature—the Taoist welcomes afflictions and bears adversities in stillness and quietness, without striving against them or complaining, for in so doing he advances along “the Way”. But, says Tony, the Christian is more fortunate than the Taoist for he need not walk the steep and stony path alone.
“Many do walk alone,” says Mr. Weir sadly.
They continue the discussion. The subject is so interesting and absorbs them so completely that I begin to think we shall be here all day, but luckily there is a large clock in the vestry and, Tony’s eyes lighting upon it, he is reminded of the passage of time.
“We must go,” says Tony regretfully.
Mr. Weir objects—he has a thousand questions he wants to ask. It is extremely difficult to tear ourselves away; he accompanies us to the car and stands with one foot on the step, still talking volubly . . . finally he asks if Tony will come to supper with him some night and continue the discussion at leisure.
Tony says he is going away tomorrow but will let Mr. Weir know if he comes back.
We shake hands cordially and say good-bye.
As we drive back to Tocher House I comment upon Tony’s ability to get to grips with all sorts of different people and talk to them about things that interest them.
“Oh well,” says Tony. “People like being talked to. They like it if you take an interest in them. Of course it isn’t the slightest use if you only pretend to take an interest. However dull and stupid they may be they know at once if your interest is insincere—their subconscious mind is aware of insincerity and you get no further . . . we turn right here, don’t we?”
“Yes, it’s a bad corner.”
Tony has been going about sixty. He slows down. “Mr. Weir knew at once that I was really interested and came half-way to meet me. When people go half-way to meet each other something happens—something important.”
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