by Bates, H. E.
‘Oh! no. Lovely. Washed in dew. Better than a bath.’
Washed in dew, Pop thought. That just about described it. He suddenly drew in large exquisite breaths of morning air and looked down with paternal fondness at the young pretty brown feet walking through the wet summer grass. In return Primrose looked up at him and smiled slowly, with a slight hint of indulgence, as if she saw through him too.
The smile dispelled the last of his uneasiness of mind. As they walked the rest of the distance to the house he felt more and more as if washed in dew himself and that the incident in the night might never have happened.
Pop normally ate two breakfasts, one a mere snack designed temporarily to stave off the first morning pangs at about six o’clock, the second, his proper breakfast, at somewhere between eight and half past; but today the incident of the girl with the razor and then that of Primrose and the mushrooms had caused him, surprisingly, to skip the first completely. Still more surprisingly he found himself not over-hungry at eight o’clock and was content to toy with a mere half dozen rashers of bacon and a plate of mushrooms.
While he was eating these Mr Charlton arrived in the kitchen and Pop greeted him with a ‘Morning, Charley boy’ which, rather low in tone, lacked much of his customary clarion sprightliness.
Mr Charlton, at Pop’s instigation, had lately taken up the pheasant-chick lark and it was turning out to be a very paying game. You got a very nice price for the chicks, which by the time they were full grown and roaming the autumn stubbles would cost the shooters not less than a tenner a time. It all seemed sheer folly to Pop, who couldn’t blame the gypsies for frequently poaching half of them with gin-soaked raisins.
‘Morning, Pop,’ Mr Charlton said. ‘You sound a trifle under the weather.’
‘I fancy he is too,’ Ma said.
‘Haven’t let the police-court get on your mind, have you?’
‘Good Gawd, the police-court! It’s Friday. Ma, I forgot every word about it. It’s the day Edith and the General and me have to go and give evidence. Gawd strike me pink, I forgot.’
At the recollections of the police-court Pop’s spirits seemed suddenly to drop again. The prospect of wasting half a summer day kicking his heels in court simply appalled him.
‘Gawd, Charley boy, I got a million things to do. Any idea how long they might keep us there?’
‘I’d deal with ’em in five minutes, the hooligans,’ Ma said, ‘if I had my way. And no half larks. I’d cut their livers and lights out. Cold.’
‘It all depends,’ Mr Charlton said.
‘On what?’ Pop said.
With precise and expert smoothness Mr Charlton at once proceeded to explain, while Pop listened marvelling, open-mouthed, that it all depended on which type of offence had been committed. In all probability the two accused would plead not guilty, reserve their defence and elect to be tried by jury at the Assizes or Quarter Sessions.
‘Good Gawd.’
‘There are in fact three types of offence of this nature,’ Mr Charlton airily went on to explain. ‘Under The Offences Against The Person Act 1861, Section 18 and again Sections 20 and 47 –’
Pop felt himself recoil under the sheer brilliant weight of Mr Charlton’s expert words. You certainly had to hand it to Charley. He wondered where he got it from. There were no flies of any kind on Charley boy.
‘My impression,’ Mr Charlton said, ‘is that they will be committed to the next quarter sessions or assizes, where you’ll have to give evidence. The whole thing, I should say, will come under Section 18 of the Act, for which in fact these jokers can get imprisonment for life.’
‘Never?’
‘Good egg!’ Ma said. ‘And a good horse-whipping too.’
‘In any case you shouldn’t be there very long today. By the way, which car are you taking? The Jag or the Rolls?’
Pop said he thought the Rolls; Edith was so fond of it. Why did Charley ask?
‘I’ll wash it over for you if you like,’ Mr Charlton said. ‘I’ve got nothing much to do.’
‘Very nice of you, Charley boy. Very nice of you. Just once over lightly.’
‘Finish your breakfast in peace. I’ll get on with it right away,’ Mr Charlton said and went out into the yard.
Less than five minutes later he was back again, more than slighdy agitated, to inform an astonished Pop that he somehow didn’t think he’d be going to court in either the Jag or the Rolls after all.
‘Why?’ Pop said. ‘How’s that then?’
‘You’ll be needing ten new tyres for a start. Every one’s been slashed. With a razor I should say.’
Ma instantly gave a loud, irreverent snort and said it fair made you want to spit.
‘Your poaching little crawl in the night,’ she said. ‘Want me to come along as body-guard? Unless I’m very much mistaken you’ll be needing a bit of protection one of these fine days.’
‘The Rolls!’ was all Pop could say. ‘The Rolls! To do a thing like that to the Rolls!’
Pop was back home for a late lunch, having stopped on the way to fortify himself, the Brigadier and Edith Pilchester with several large and much-needed brandies at The Hare & Hounds.
‘Well,’ Ma said, ‘tell me about it. What happened? Put’em away for a good long spell?’
No, Pop proceeded to explain, it was just exactly like Charley boy had said – you really had to hand it to Charley – they were both remanded on bail to appear at the next Assizes.
‘Looked about as arrogant as a pair o’ Nazis. I thought one of ‘em’d spit in the Clerk o’ the Court’s eye.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘How did poor old Edith take it?’
Pop said he thought Edith was really frightened; he was worried about Edith, living in that cottage of hers all alone.
‘Tell her about the girl and the razor?’
Pop confessed that he hadn’t; he was honestly afraid to, in case it might make her more frightened still.
‘But you’ll have to tell the police?’
‘Going back there this afternoon.’
Ma then proceeded to ask about the Brigadier. How had the Brigadier shaped up to it all?
‘Well,’ Pop said, ‘it was rather funny in a way, about the General. He turned up sort of all dressed up and on parade. Best suit, rolled umbrella, gold watch-chain and bowler hat. Looked ready to defend the Right and the Faith and all that.’
Here Pop paused to give a sprightly and passable imitation of the Brigadier defending the Right and the Faith with his rolled umbrella. It failed, surprisingly, to make Ma laugh.
‘Not that he’d stand much chance with them birds. They’d cut their own grandmother up for cats’ meat.’
For a moment Ma seemed about to utter a typical expression of disgust but instead she grew unexpectedly pensive. Though she couldn’t yet bring herself to confess it to Pop, she too was frightened. One day everything in the garden was lovely; the next there was poison in the air.
At that moment Pop, intuitively sensing that she was ill-at-ease, put a consolatory arm round her enormous waist and asked if she wouldn’t join him in a Red Bull, his favourite cocktail?
‘I will an all,’ she said. And you can mix it up good and strong and quadruple into the bargain. I need it bad.’
‘Not worried, Ma?’
To this Ma had no answer to give until Pop had put into her hands the largest Red Bull even she had ever seen – Pop remarked that it was a real pepper-upper – when she said:
‘I don’t mind telling you I am. What’s more, if this goes on you’ll have to start keeping your shot-gun by your bedside.’
Pop, after gravely taking a good, deep gulp of Red Bull, slowly shook his head.
‘Can’t do that, Ma.’
What did he mean? Ma wanted to know. Couldn’t do what?
‘What you said. I already asked Charley boy about it. Can’t take up fire-arms to use against jokers like these breaking in at night. Mustn’t use no more force than is reasonable. Charle
y says so. And Charley knows.’
Ma, in great disgust, took an almost savage swing at her Red Bull.
‘What are we supposed to resist ’em with, then? Spoons?’
Pop rather gloomily confessed he didn’t know. But that, according to Charley boy, was how it was.
‘What are we all coming to?’ Ma suddenly demanded to know in a positive flame of passion fed by yet another furious swig at the Red Bull. ‘Where in the name of all the saints are we supposed to be? England? I sometimes begin to doubt it.’
Pop had half begun to doubt it himself and was presently further shattered by Ma thrusting an empty glass into his hands.
‘Here, give me a refill, do. A good big one an’ all. My faith needs a bit of restoring today.’
10
On Sunday morning, while the Larkins were unconcernedly breakfasting on their customary fried eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and fried bread, with much ketchup, Mademoiselle Dupont stayed late in bed, sipping weak tea, which she regarded more as a medicine than anything, and munching on dry toast and honey Though the duty lying before her was really a light one she still viewed it with alarm and a tension springing from nerves frayed from the dismaying experiences of two days before.
Ma and Pop had held brief court on these alarms and tensions, in bed, the night before.
‘Bundle of nerves, you can see that,’ Ma said. ‘Hardly eats anything either. Jumpy as a kitten.’
Pop agreed, but nevertheless, recalling the Brigadier’s trenchant words on the subject, had a simple explanation. Foreign blood.
‘Suppose so,’ Ma said. ‘You’ve been behaving yourself, though, Syd Larkin, I hope, haven’t you?’
‘Not kissed her yet,’ Pop said, as if this interesting experience might have provided a solution to Mademoiselle Dupont’s emotional crisis. ‘Suppose I ought?’
Ma said she thought it would be a far better idea if he drove Mademoiselle to church in the buggy It would be a more tranquillizing experience than the Rolls.
‘Might make Edith jealous,’ Pop said.
‘You and your women,’ Ma said. ‘Why don’t you start a harem?’
‘Strength’s a very fine thing,’ Pop said and Ma, laughing with spontaneous splendour, gave him an affectionate wallop in the back.
Mr Candy was another very bad case of nerves, she went on to say. She sometimes didn’t know what to make of Mr Candy. She could only suppose it was living alone and all that. Not having anybody to share things with.
‘By the way,’ Pop said, ‘Primrose’s in love with him.’
‘Oh! really?’ Ma said. ‘Not surprised.’
‘And she was telling me too how he used to work in an East End parish in London,’ Pop said. ‘Very like that accounts for something.’
Ma said she shouldn’t wonder. It was more than likely. London was no good to anybody. It was good enough to unmoralize you. Give her the country any day.
‘Talking about unmoralizing,’ she went on, ‘is it next week you have to go and give evidence at the Assizes about them two hooligans?’
‘No, the next.’
‘Pity. I must say I’ll be glad when it’s over.’
Mademoiselle Dupont, rising at last between eleven and half past, found herself facing the first problem of the day. It was whether to wear Pop’s tantalizing gift of black lingerie or to settle for something more modest and substantial? The experience of wearing so intimately personal a gift would hardly make for serenity, yet the least she felt she could do was to wear it, so to speak, in honour of the day.
At last she put the garments on, only to find herself quivering so much that she immediately took them off again, replacing them with plainer and more honest things, the lower of which she secured, in case of possible accident, with two enormous safety pins.
She then took four aspirins, finished putting on her plain black dress with white sleeve and collar pipings, her black and white hat and her white gloves. Finally she crossed herself several times, said a short prayer and bathed her forehead in eau-de-cologne.
Going downstairs at twenty minutes to twelve, she found most of the Larkins ready. Ma was wearing a dress of mauve chiffon, with a large picture hat decorated all over with violets and pink daisies. Pop was in a remarkably subdued suit of clerical grey, with a large red clove carnation in the buttonhole. The christening lark had got to be treated with a bit of seriousness, he had finally decided, whatever goings-on might happen later, when grub and totting out and all that started.
The twins, all in white except for the distinguishing scarlet and purple ribbons in their hair, seemed to Mademoiselle Dupont like a pair of little angels. They reminded her so much of the young girls one saw in those lovely confirmatory processions back home in Brittany. The sweetest, most angelic things.
‘Well, it’s going uphill for twelve,’ Ma said. ‘Where’s Primrose? Everybody’s ready except Primrose.’
‘Still making up,’ Victoria said.
Victoria was in palest blue, a colour that gave her a certain visionary serenity
‘Better nip up and tell her to hurry’ Ma said. ‘Oh! do be quiet, little Oscar. You’ll drown the living daylights out of us.’
Little Oscar was sitting in a chair at the table, which he was loudly and vigorously banging with one of Ma’s wooden spoons. He was wearing a light cream tussore suit which threw up into shining relief his fat red moon of a face, which seemed almost beery in its healthiness.
‘Oh! go to Mademoiselle Dupont for a minute, do.’ Ma instantly plonked the well-stuffed shape of Oscar into Mademoiselle Dupont’s unready arms, so that she almost staggered as she clasped him with a sudden rush of Gallic affection to her deep firm bosom. ‘Go to your godmother.’
‘Ah! mon chéri! Chéri – tchook, tchook, tchook!’
‘Nice an’ warm in ‘ere!’ little Oscar said, using one of his favourite expressions.
Presently, with Primrose still nowhere to be seen, Mr Charlton, Mariette and little Blenheim arrived. Mr Charlton too was wearing a charcoal grey suit with a dark red rose in his buttonhole and to Ma’s infinite astonishment was carrying a black bowler and a black rolled umbrella. Altogether Ma thought he looked so posh that she half-wished Pop had sported a bowler too. She’d a good mind to buy him one for Christmas – perhaps one in green or brown.
Mademoiselle Dupont gazed at Mr Charlton with inexpressible rapture. He, at any rate, with his melon, his sang-froid and his umbrella, epitomized the England of her dreams. Here at last was the true, real Englishman.
Mariette, who looked a model of sheer allurement in a white silk suit and a white birthday cake of a hat with many buttercup flowers springing up all over it, suddenly said:
‘Personally I think we ought to get started. Mr Candy’ll be having an accident or something if we keep him waiting.’
‘Quite right,’ Pop said. ‘Time’s getting on. Charley boy, you take the Rolls and load up. I’ll bring Mademoiselle Dupont and Primrose in the buggy. Where is that gal? Snifter afore you go, Charley?’
‘No snifters!’ Ma said with a firmness almost unparalleled at that particular time of Sunday morning, when she and Pop would normally have been sharing snifters by the dozen, ‘we don’t want the church to pong like a four-ale bar.’
With the newly tyred Rolls moving sweetly out of the yard and little Oscar waving his wooden spoon out of the back window Pop found himself presently caught between the dual temptation of the cocktail cabinet and Mademoiselle Dupont. He couldn’t quite decide whether to give Mademoiselle Dupont a couple of rapid nerve-soothers or to mix himself a quick Red Bull in spite of Ma.
He was saved from the necessity of making this excruciating decision by the serene arrival, at ten minutes past twelve, of Primrose. Her make-up, though by no means obtrusive, had taken her well over an hour and now had the effect of making her look all of nineteen. Her dress, quite low at the neck and very short-sleeved, was exactly of the right primrose colour to match her name. The belt round her waist w
as broad and in emerald green and gave her a high up-lifted bust. Her gloves were of the same colour as her hat and threw into relief the deep sallow colour of her arms. Her hat was the merest spider’s web of green lace and looked as if it had dropped on to her rich black hair with the morning dew.
Even Pop was stunned. He vaguely murmured something about ‘Ready?’ and had neither the heart nor will to scold her for lateness. He’d always said she’d be the belle of the family; he wasn’t sure she wasn’t even lovelier than Mariette. She even approached his vision of an earlier Ma, splendid in her own-precocious maturity.
Impressed too, Mademoiselle Dupont gave an enchanted sigh and two minutes later the three of them were driving away in the buggy, to a jingle of bells, into a morning from which the muggy vapours of July were at last lifting, to let the sun come through.
The Rev. Candy had not merely had one accident that morning, but several. First he had cut himself an uncountable number of times while shaving, so that for a time he had gone about with bits of white cotton-wool sticking out all over his face, rather like a tattered Christmas party snowman. Then out of sheer anxiety he had mistaken the time and arrived at the church at a quarter to eleven instead of a quarter to twelve. There was no morning service, so that for an hour he had been obliged to sit alone in the vestry, until finally deciding to make himself a cup of instant coffee, which through impossible nervousness he promptly spilled down the front of his trousers.
When he finally emerged from the vestry he got the immediate impression that there were far more people gathered about the christening font, on which a number of candles were burning, than he or the Rev. Spinks ever saw at a service.
Nor, he thought, had he ever been confronted with quite such an array of beauty To the collective allurements of the Larkin family were now added the ravishments of Jasmine Brown and Angela Snow. Like a cool but hardly blessed pair of sirens, one brunette, one blonde, they stood together, radiating a strange compulsive sort of calm. Miss Pilchester was also there, wearing a rather outdated purple pork-pie of a hat, which Ma slowly recognized as one she had long since sent to a jumble sale.