“Oh no, my brothers are going to sell it for a friend, who has gone back to Africa.”
“I see. Well, I suppose I should be going back now.”
“Must you go?”
“I don’t have to! Only I don’t want to be in the way!”
“Oh, but you won’t be.”
She led him through the wooden gates by the canoe and into the neglected garden.
Soon with a cloth he was drying and polishing knives and forks, while she washed up. When the job was done they went down the lane, and getting over a stone wall entered a wood above a river. This was one of her favourite walks, she said, as they sat down under a tree.
On returning to the house, he was invited to stay to supper. Soon he was feeling entirely at home, sitting at the table among them, the spaniel lying on the floor. So quiet, so friendly, so free—could any young men anywhere else in the world be so nice, an old gentleman be so merry, so natural, so courteously indifferent about the world in general, never bothering about things outside his house and garden? A tremendous admiration grew in Phillip for him, and he told himself he was indeed fortunate to have met with such a family.
For supper Lucy had cut a plate of bloater-paste sandwiches. A silver kettle stood on the table, heated by a spirit flame. Everyone made his own coffee, by pouring a tablespoonful of brown liquid out of a bottle, filling the cup with hot water, adding sugar and milk and leaving the next person to fill the kettle and put it on the stand to boil. Likewise with the sandwiches: no formality of helping someone else first; hands stretched out to take.
“Everyone pleases himself here,” declared Mr. Copleston; and, as far as Phillip could see, pleased everyone else as well.
However, the last sandwich left on the plate was subject to ceremony. Four pairs of male eyes looked at it. “Odd man out!” said the youngest brother, who wore spectacles like the eldest. Immediately four coins were tossed into the air. By a process of elimination the sandwich was won. Without a word the winner was about to put out a hand to take it went the youngest brother exclaimed, “By Jove, wait a moment, I say! Our guest didn’t toss odd-man-out!” Five coins were then tossed. Four of the losers laughed as it was grabbed and immediately eaten.
“If you don’t take what you want in this house, you won’t get anything,” remarked the old man.
Phillip was looking forward to the washing up, to be alone once more with Lucy. This presented no difficulties, for as soon as anyone had finished eating he left the table, leaving Lucy to do the clearing-away. The table-cloth, she said, was left where it was, for breakfast. The salt cellars and pepper pots were also left.
He went happily with her into the scullery. The work seemed to be finished almost as soon as it was begun, and it was time to join the others in the sitting-room, where four grown men were sitting in silence, all reading. Only the youngest, who sat beside a pile of bound volumes of The Model Engineer, moved to make a place for the newcomers on the sofa. Phillip sank into the broken corner, content to sit beside his pretty girl.
After awhile he became interested in what the others were reading. Mr. Copleston, sitting in the only armchair, which had partly burst away from its frame, was intent on a small paperbacked booklet meticulously fixed on a brass-and-mahogany reading stand beside him. The youngest brother, solemn of face, was examining the blueprint of a wireless set. The middle boy, who was fair and good-looking, sat back in a creaking wicker affair and smoked reflectively.
“I say,” said Tim, the youngest boy, in a soft whisper, to Phillip. “Must you really go back to Devon tonight? You can stop here if you like, you know. Please do, if you’d like to. We’d love to have you, really. There’s a hammock outside in the veranda. Or you could have the chalet on the lawn if you like.”
Phillip thanked him, and after awhile he and Lucy went outside, where they could talk the easier. It was decided that he should stay the night in the chalet, one side of which was open to the air.
*
He wanted to wear his best Indian cavalry drill breeches, washed, for when Lucy arrived with her Guides. They had been made by his London tailor, Mr. Kerr, in the autumn of 1918, when Phillip had been ordered to India, but the posting had been stopped owing to the Armistice.
When he arrived back he saw that Mrs. Mules had boiled his breeches. Giving them to him, with his other washing, neatly folded, she exclaimed before he could open his mouth, “I know what you be looking at, but ’tidden no good you saying naught! ’Tes what you asked Zillah for me to do! You told ’r I must boil’m, so I boiled ’m! And there you be, you see, ’tes no good you saying naught about it! I’ve done my best vor ’ee! You axed Zillah for me to boil’m in the furnace, an’ I boiled ’m, and so you see it be no good you telling me they’m zamzawed, because I knows they’m zamzawed, see!”
Before Phillip could utter a word, Mules broke in, bobbing his carroty head with, “I’m sure my wife’s been very kind to ’ee, very kind to ’ee. My wife hath always done her best to plaize ivryone, ivryone my wife hath; ivryone, like.”
Phillip looked at the buckskin strappings. They were shrivelled, and had drawn the cotton cloth. Seeing him looking at them, Zillah cried in her ringing treble, “’Tes no use your saying anything, Mr. Maddison! Us knows all about you, and why you wanted to smarten up, so don’t you say naught, for we won’t believe it, see?”
He looked at his bill for the baby’s board and his own. By a simple error in rural arithmetic the past week had been reckoned as eight days. He knew the Mules to be scrupulously honest and particular; it was merely a slip in calculation.
“Tes no gude you lookin’ like that!” said Mrs. Mules. “You told Zillah I was to boil’m, so I boiled’m! You can’t get over that, not with all your nonsense!”
“Are you sure I didn’t tell Zillah that I wanted them fried? And while Jehovah worked to a seven-day plan, why does this village apparently work eight days in a week?”
But it was no good arguing. He went back to his cottage; and later in the afternoon went to see Mules, who was digging a grave in the churchyard, and made a man-to-man appeal on this question: “Are there eight days in a week, or are there seven? Would you just answer that chronological query?”
Perhaps Mules thought he was swearing; for with Christian humility appropriate to the place they were standing in he said, while tapping the thigh-bone of a previous tenant of the grave upon the handle of his shovel:
“My wife hath been very kind to ’ee, zur. Very kind my wife hath been. My wife hath done her best for ’ee, Mis’r Masson. I’m sure you know my wife hath.”
“Your wife hath, I know. But will you please look at this piece of paper. I paid my bill exactly a week ago. Under the solar system, to which mankind endeavours to adapt itself in this vale of tears, there are seven days in a week——”
“Us have looked after ’ee proper, us don’t mind what us does for ’ee, us’ll do aught for the babby, Mis’r Masson, and for your Rusty old dog tew—he-he. I shouldn’t by rights be laffin’ in th’ churchyard, should I? Don’t ’ee tell his Reverence, will ’ee? There be Rusty, dear old dog, Rusty, surenuff, Rusty—dear li’l ole dog, dear ole Moggy, too. Moggy cometh often and my wife doth look after Moggy, when you’m gone, gone away, like.”
“Yes, I know, I agree, I couldn’t find nicer or kinder people anywhere; but just tell me this, Are there seven days in a week, or are there eight, my dear old wimbling machine?”
“I’m sure us does all us can for ’ee, all us can, my wife doth.” Tap tap of the bone on the handle of the shovel. “When be ’ee goin’ vor ’ave th’ babby christened, zur? Tidden right, you know, people be zaying it ban’t right. There was your cousin, beggin’ your pardon, zur, there was Mis’r Will’um, you know what became of he, don’t ’ee? Twas God’s punishment, I did hear someone zay. Only don’t ’ee tell anyone I told ’ee, wull ’ee?”
“Muley, my dear,” Phillip said, as quietly as the gravedigger had spoken. “Do you not understand that a man may care fo
r truth for its own sake? Do you remember what my cousin Willie said? The village thought that he was ‘mazed’—but the village lives in a world actuated by suspicion, mental fear, distrust of self and therefore of neighbour. That is what my cousin was up against.”
“I’m sure my wife hath always bin very kind to both of ’ee, very kind my wife hath bin, my wife,” murmured the grave-digger.
Phillip amended the bill to seven days, and left it with the money under a saucer on the kitchen table.
At supper that night both daughter and mother blamed him for the underhand way he had altered the bill in pencil, instead of having the honesty to speak openly to them about it. His lips parted, but both women told him not to dare to say anything further. “Proper old praicher you be!” cried the daughter. “Us heard all about ’ee praiching to feyther in the grave ’a was digging!”
“Yes,” he said, “I was quite wrong. I asked you to roast, boil and fry my breeches; and there are eight days in a week!”
Within a few minutes they were all laughing together, and in the excitement Rusty stole the Mules’ cat’s supper.
Later Phillip said, “Now I know why the Romans, who built straight roads, never came to Devon. They conked out, defeated by the Dumnonians, or Damnonians as they later became. They chucked in their hand at Exeter! And after that the Damns settled down for life as Dumms.”
*
Lucy arrived with her Girl Guides, together with an older woman Ginny, who was in charge of younger girls, the Brownies. When they were settled in the camp Phillip called there with baby and spaniel, both of whom immediately became favourites. This visit was known by the time he arrived back at the Mules’ cottage, and he realised the underlying resentment after he had told Mrs. Mules how his new friend thought Billy was a wonderful child.
“Pshaw! ’Er’s set ’er cap at ’ee,” said Mrs. Mules. “Can’t ’ee zee that? ’Er don’t want Billy, so much as ’er wants ’ee, but if you think——” Mrs. Mules was getting excited—“If you think ’er’ll look after Billy better than us can, then why don’t ’ee get ’er vor come and take on the job? I seen many like that in my time—as soon as baby be born they’m after folks like us to be wet nurses, just to save their own figures and go out into Society agen, and can’t be bothered to feed their own babbies! Don’t tell me! Why, any young leddy wanting a man will make a fuss over his babby, if he be a widower, and for why? To catch ’n, that be why!”
“Anyhow, she said that Billy had been very well looked after.”
“There, you zee!” Mrs. Mules cried. “No one can zay us don’t do our best to look after ’n, noomye!”
“Of course not, Mrs. Mules.”
“You can ‘Missis Mules’ me, if you’m a mind to, but I’m telling ’ee to look out for yourself, my dear man! You’ll be catched before ’ee knaws it, yesmye, you’ll find yourself catched!”
“That’s right, zur,” murmured Mules, “My wife be quite honest.”
He determined not to be affected by these remarks, while feeling that he was entirely responsible for the growth of familiarity. No reserve, as Mother had often told him.
Seeing his face, Mules chipped in, “Us be very fond of ’ee, zur, don’t ’ee zee. Us wouldn’t like vor ’ee to come to no harm. Harm, like. There be all sorts about today!” he giggled. “Zome high-up ladies do paint their faces, and wear short skirts, so I do hear!” This bold statement was followed by Mules bending almost double with subdued hilarity. “Mrs. Wigfull, ’er paints her face, zo I did hear zom’n zay, he-he-he.”
“Have a fag, my dear old Wimbling Machine!” cried Phillip, offering his case. “You and I are above the gossip of the sergeants’ cookhouse.”
“Now don’t you teach Feyther bad ways, Mis’r Mass’n!” cried Zillah. “We’ve read your book you know! We all know it was you, called yourself Donkin, didn’t you, and that ‘Pauline’, who was she really? The fast thing!” She fired again. “Tes all lies, anyway, I reckon!”
Mules took the cigarette, and held it wobblingly to the match offered by Phillip.
“Well, I’ll be off now, Mrs. Mules. Thanks for my sandwiches. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“They say in the village that you’re taking the Girl Guide mistress on the back of your bike!” Zillah challenged him.
“Only as far as Bideford, to visit her relations.”
“I know—Commander and Mrs. Gilbert!” said Zillah. “Can you deny it?”
“My,” said Mules, gingerly puffing, and blowing smoke through a round hole of his lips. “You be goin’ up, you’m goin’ among the high-ups, like. I’m sure I be very glad to hear it.” He puffed gingerly at his cigarette: it was the first time he had smoked.
“Have a good time!” cried Zillah, as Phillip got up to go. “Us’ll mind your son and heir for you, Mis’r Mass’n. Now don’t go too fast, and have an upset with your passenger, will you?”
Mules took another delicate puff of the cigarette held at right angles between two fingers. “My, ban’t you be goin’ up! What times us be livin’ in!”
“And don’t ’ee forget that you’ve got another leddy and gentleman comin’ vor zee ’ee, will ’ee? They’m comin’ tomorrow, mind, so don’t ’ee get hitched up with no young leddy an’ forget all about Mr. and Mrs. Beausire,” Mrs. Mules reminded him.
Martin Beausire had written to ask Phillip if he would find him lodgings, with a private sitting-room, for his wife and himself, for the next fortnight. Mrs. Mules had agreed to take them, and Phillip had already sent a postcard to tell Beausire this at his Fleet Street address.
Chapter 11
TOWN TALK
Martin Beausire was not on the fast midday train from Waterloo. Phillip went for a walk around the Great Field while waiting for the afternoon train. No Martin and wife. Later, having postponed his supper, he went to meet the nine-thirty p.m.; to return once again and apologise for the non-appearance of his guests.
“What sort of people be’m?” asked Mrs. Mules. “My dear man, I’ve a-had the cockerel ins and outs of the bodley since lunchtime!”
“Mr. Beausire is a very busy man, Mrs. Mules.”
“So be I a very busy woman, my dear man!”
“And don’t you forget it!” cried Zillah.
“That be true,” put in Mules. “My wife be very honest, very honest, like.”
No letter arrived the next day. At the end of the week Phillip insisted on paying for the lodgings. Then came a scrawled note saying that Martin and wife were coming on Saturday and reminding Phillip to have a taxi for him at the station.
There was only one in the village, a Chevrolet open tourer. It rained on the Friday night and all Saturday morning. Phillip went to see if there was a hood on the Chev and volunteered to repair the celluloid curtains with bits of an old hood, which he stuck across the holes with rubber solution. It was better than nothing. Once again he was waiting for the Waterloo train, in vain; and again in the afternoon. Then a telegram came saying that Martin was arriving at Victoria Road Station in Barnstaple, which was the Great Western Railway terminus, at 7.18 p.m. Thither he went in the rattling pre-war taxi.
Martin’s first words on getting out of the carriage with two heavy suitcases were, “The most ghastly journey! We might have been two characters in ‘Outward Bound’. Look at your blasted weather!” The platform roof was gushing water from a squall. Phillip made to take his bags. “I’ll manage these, my lad. Take the heavy one from Fiona. The latch is broken, so be careful, there are five hundred books inside.”
Phillip took the bag from the very young and slender woman in a green cloche hat matching her eyes. “You don’t know my wife, do you? This is Phillip Maddison. Come on.” Wrapped in a heavy overcoat, Martin led the way to the barrier. “Is this the only taxi you could get?” he growled, glancing at the sagging hood of the Chevrolet.
“It’s the only taxi in Speering Folliot, Martin.”
“Then why didn’t you get one in this town? There’s Grinlings in the
Square, and Pedler’s.”
“It’s not far to go.”
“Come on, girl, don’t stand there as though this is a fashion show,” he said to Fiona, who had hesitated. “There’s no need to freeze to death.” To Phillip he said, “I hope you’ve had the sense to order fires to be lit in both our sitting-room and bedroom! This blasted English weather,” he moaned, trying to look through the small space left in the celluloid curtain on his side of the back seat. “What’s this?” He pulled at the black material stuck on with rubber solution and it came away on his fingers.
“It wasn’t very secure, rubber solution won’t stick on celluloid, I’m afraid, Martin.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.” He flapped his hand, shook it violently, the tacky black cloth stuck to his cheek.
“Let me sit where you are,” suggested Phillip, removing the material. “The rain will beat against the curtain as we go beside the estuary.” Martin moved up against Fiona. “Why are we waiting here?” he asked, unhappily.
“Aiy Aiy, I’ll get’n started,” said the driver. “My Gor’, I ’opes it will spark! Tes a turrible drop o’ rain us’v had last twenty-four hours, zur.”
Fortunately the engine started. Martin made further observations as they left the station yard.
“Your railway supplies the bloodiest food in Europe. The General Manager deserves to be drowned in a bath of his own Brown Windsor soup!”
“Isn’t that a soap?”
“Soap or soup, the taste is the same.”
“How’s Fleet Street getting along?” asked Phillip, stopping the inrush of wind and water with the near side of his trench-coat.
“Good God,” muttered Martin. “Here I am, having just managed to crawl for my life out of that stinking sewer, that cesspit which deals in the direct by-products of the creeping paralysis of our so-called civilisation—and the first thing I hear after arriving in Glorious Devon is, ‘How’s Fleet Street getting along?’” A paroxysm of coughing stopped further words.
It Was the Nightingale Page 19