Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  “Don’t be obscene,” said Berry. “I came here at your invitation. Against my better judgment, I—”

  “Oh, you liar,” said Jill. “We told you to—”

  “At considerable personal inconvenience, to do you pleasure, I lay down upon my belly—”

  “I will not,” said Daphne, “allow you to use that filthy word.”

  “I see,” said her husband. “Well, b-bellies are b-bagatelles to the b-blanks which I shall clothe, if that case is not restored within two minutes of time. Damn it, you gave it me. D’you want it to be done in?”

  “You dropped it,” said Jill. “Why should poor Boy—”

  “I,” said Berry, “am the head of an illustrious house. It is the privilege of the younger members to assist and comfort their lord. That’s matter of tradition.”

  “I’ll help to dry you,” said I.

  In a pregnant silence, my brother-in-law gained the bank, removed his coat and laid it upon the turf. Then he rolled up his sleeves.

  “Have we got a walking-stick?”

  I shook my head.

  “What about the tire-pump?”

  “If you ask me,” said I, “there’s—”

  “I don’t ask you,” snapped Berry. “I wouldn’t demean myself by seeking counsel of you. Your duty is plain. Thanks to your treachery, a valuable trinket of mine has been cast into the draught. The least you can do is to restore it.”

  “There’s nothing doing,” said I, and went for the pump…

  The water was three feet deep and the distance from the bridge to the water was two feet six. By lying flat on the planks, Berry could reach the case with the end of the pump; but, when he endeavoured to push it towards the bank, it merely turned and settled, time and again.

  “What you want is a rake,” said Daphne.

  Her husband was breathing through his nose.

  “The next person,” he said, “to name any of the innumerable requisites, such as diving-bells, which would avail me, but are not available, will do so at his peril.”

  With that, he rose to his feet, strode to the bank, threw the pump into the bracken and tore off his shirt.

  By the time I had found the pump, Daphne and Jill had retired and Berry was in his shorts.

  As I opened my mouth—

  “I’m much obliged,” said Berry. “I know that look, It ushers that gorgeous protasis, ‘If I were you.’ But I don’t want any ‘words to the wise’. I am well aware that, being neither acrobat nor contortionist, I can only recover my case by immersing the whole of my person, with the possible exception of a zone, five inches in depth about my trunk. With luck, that may remain dry. Possibly some portion of the buttocks may escape – a solemn thought. I shall enter and leave the flood by way of the foot-bridge. You will assist me in – and assist me out. And now – en avant.”

  With that, he led the way, with the air of a cardinal.

  All went very well. Berry had recovered his case and was shaking the water from his head, when I saw him peer at the under side of the planks.

  “That’s funny,” he said, standing up. “There’s a letter-box under the bridge.” He gave me the case. “Right at the end. Lie down and see for yourself.”

  I did as he said.

  Screwed to the centre plank was an ordinary letter-box, such as is sometimes seen within a front-door. Its lid was shut and secured by a staple and hasp.

  “Anything inside?” said Berry. “My hands are wet.”

  I opened the lid and drew out a little package, heavy enough for its size. An oil-skin tobacco-pouch was wrapping a stout linen envelope, folded once.

  “Wait till I’m out,” said Berry. “Now give me a hand.”

  One minute later, seated upon the sward, we examined our spoil.

  The envelope bore no writing. It was sealed in the usual way. There seemed to be a paper inside: there were certainly a number of coins.

  Berry regarded me.

  “What price the blind wallah?” he said. “The blind man who could see?”

  I struck the turf with my palm.

  “By God, you’re right,” said I. “That’s why he was watching the car. When I didn’t turn into Minever, he went on his way.”

  “An uneasy mind,” said Berry. “I think we should show this to Lake.”

  Colonel Lake was the Chief Constable. His pleasant house stood a mile and a half from Dovetail, close to the Bloodstock road.

  “I expect you’re right,” said I.

  I wrapped the packet again and stowed it away. While Berry put on his clothes, I dried his case.

  As we rejoined the girls—

  “I’m hungry,” said Berry. “Astonishing how immersion can whet the appetite.”

  My sister looked round from the kettle. “Nearly ready,” she said. “Is the case all right?”

  “I think it’s improved,” said Berry. “Where is the food?”

  “There’s some bread and butter there, if you really can’t wait?”

  “What, real bread and butter? What a treat! Aren’t there any anchovy sandwiches?”

  “If you’re really hungry,” said his wife…

  The kettle declined to boil, until I screened the lamp with a rug from the car. Jill and I held this up, while Daphne watched the pot. I could feel no breeze, but lamps are sensitive things. At last the tea was ready.

  Offered bread and butter, Berry refused.

  “I’ve had two slices,” he said.

  “But you said you were hungry,” said Daphne.

  “I know. It’s all this waiting. The – the urge has passed.”

  “Well, have some cake,” said his wife.

  “No, thank you. I’m thirsty now. I’ll just have some tea.”

  “Well, I’ll have some cake,” said Daphne.

  “Where is it?” said Jill.

  “In the other jar, darling.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’ve looked. They can’t have put it in.”

  “Oh, I can’t bear it,” said Daphne. “Besides, Falcon asked if he should slice it.”

  “Just as well I’m not hungry,” said her husband.

  I turned and looked at him.

  “What were you doing,” I said, “while we were screening the lamp?”

  “Doing?” said Berry, wide-eyed. “Bread and butter in hand, I strolled down to the water again. I thought, if I stood very still—”

  Daphne and Jill were upon him, before he could move.

  After a violent struggle, a sheet of grease-proof paper, folded again and again, was found in his jacket-pocket. That it had contained rich cake, there could be no doubt.

  Flushed and panting, my sister sat back on her heels.

  “You’re not fit to live with,” she said. “It’s like the animals. While we three are making tea in which you’re going to share, you bolt our cake – eight slices.”

  “Only six,” said Berry. “Falcon must have miscounted. I thought there should have been eight.”

  “And I meant,” said Jill, “I meant to give a piece to the rat.”

  “He can have my bread and butter,” said Berry. “Where’s my tea?”

  “I’ve poured it away,” said Jill.

  “Oh, the vixen,” said Berry. “No, damn it, I’m parched with thirst.”

  “I’ll bet you are,” said Daphne. “And so you’ll stay.”

  With that, she emptied the teapot before his eyes.

  “Of course that’s wanton,” said her husband. “You won’t be forgiven for that. Think of the starving tramps that would sell their souls for—”

  “Yes, you thought of them, didn’t you? Which d’you think they’d like best – six slices of Dundee cake or a cup of tea?”

  “The cake wasn’t wasted,” said Berry. “I was failing, and it restored me. My God, I’m thirsty.” He looked pleadingly at Jill. “Let me have one mouthful, my sweet. You know, Just a sip.”

  “Not a tea-spoon,” said Jill. “Besides, if I said yes, you’d swallow the lot and then say you’d ma
de a mistake.”

  “I shouldn’t dream of such a thing” – piously. “I’m not like that. Haven’t you got any water? My tongue’s beginning to swell.”

  “Not a drop,” said Daphne.

  “There’s always the stream,” said I.

  “Yes, I don’t fancy that,” said Berry. “We’re not near enough to its source.”

  “There’s some spirit left,” said Jill, “if you like to boil some more.”

  Berry shuddered. Then he glanced at his watch.

  “I think we should be going,” he said.

  “Why?” said Daphne. “It’s only a quarter to five. As long as we’re at Dovetail by six…”

  Berry stifled a scream.

  “I – I must be home,” he declared, “by half-past five. I’m expecting a telephone-call.”

  “Who from?” said Jill.

  “Derry Bagot,” said Berry boldly.

  “That’s all right,” said Daphne. “He’s coming to tennis on Thursday and he can tell you then.”

  “That won’t do. It’s business.”

  The association of Derry with business made us all laugh.

  “It’s about the match,” said Berry. “Bilberry’s playing Gamecock on Saturday afternoon. Derry wants to know if I’m going to turn out.”

  “Of course you’re playing,” said I. “And so am I. I’ll ring him up and tell him at eight o’clock. And don’t get worried – Janet’ll give you some milk.”

  “And what’s the beer done? But the point is I want it now. My salivary glands aren’t working. My gorge can’t rise.”

  “It serves you right,” said Jill. “When I think of that rat and its baby… They would have loved it so.”

  Berry swallowed – with difficulty.

  “I, er, did it without thinking,” he said. “Busy with my reflections, absorbed in thought, I consumed what there was. Had there been forty pieces, I might have devoured them all.”

  “Abstractedly?” said I.

  “That’s right,” said Berry. “That’s the word. I don’t think I ought to suffer because of that.”

  “Don’t you, indeed?” said his wife. “And what about us? We’ve lost our cake, and then we’re to leave an hour early because you’ve eaten it all. Is it Gamecock The Butcher plays for?”

  “Not on your life,” said Berry. “He works for Riding Hood.” He turned to me. “Your turn this year, my hearty. I hope he won’t smash your nose.”

  Cricket. One or more of us always played for the village, provided that we were at home. This was an understood thing. The one match we did not enjoy was that against Riding Hood. This was because of The Butcher, who fairly deserved his name. The wickets he took were few, but he got his men. Three years ago, when Riding Hood had played Dovetail, four of the Dovetail batsmen had had to be helped from the ground. Berry and I took it in turns to face him. Last year it was Berry’s turn, and he was hit on the throat. The bowling was lawful, but of a fearful kind. And village wickets are imperfect. To say that the ball ‘rose sharply’ is nothing at all.

  “But I shan’t be here,” said I.

  “Yes, you will. You’re coming here with Granite.”

  “That’s the Cleric match. Riding Hood’s the week before.”

  “Then you’ll have to come back,” said Berry.

  “I can’t,” said I. “I shall be attending the Judge. That afternoon we shall entrain for Forage.”

  Berry looked dazedly round.

  “D’you mean to say,” he said, “that I’ve got to face that murderer again? That, after what I suffered last year, I’ve got to stand up there and be maimed or disfigured for life?” He clasped his head in his hands. “I had to be massaged last time – for weeks on end. Damn it, I’ve only just recovered.”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said. “I’d be here if I could.”

  “The thing’s a scandal,” said Daphne. “Can’t something be done?”

  “Everyone’s waiting,” said I, “on everyone else. If Cleric lodges a protest, Cleric lays itself open to a charge of cowardice. It’s the same with Gamecock and us. Look at Dovetail: four men ‘retired hurt’ in one innings: but Dovetail wouldn’t protest. The truth, of course, is that it’s up to Riding Hood. They shouldn’t play the man.”

  “Is he such a good bowler?”

  “He’s rotten,” said I. “Unfortunately, most of us are very indifferent bats. Any county batsman would put him where he belonged.”

  “It’s really shameful,” said Jill. “I mean, it isn’t as if the ball was soft.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Berry, feeling his throat. “What I went through last year. The wonder is I’m alive. And now I’ve got to go through it all over again. This time, I suppose, he’ll knock my teeth down my throat. The pillory isn’t in it. After all, dead cats may smell, but they’ve got some give. And now what about this rat? Let’s see if some bread and butter will help it up.”

  Under Jill’s direction, he laid a slice upon the lip of the hole from which the rats had emerged. Before we left for Dovetail, we had the very great pleasure of watching the mother taste and then commend it to her child. While they were making their meal, the father returned, and, by his advice or instruction, what remained of the slice was drawn carefully into the hole and out of our view.

  “There you are,” said Berry. “You couldn’t have done that with cake.”

  Forty-eight hours had gone by, and Derry Bagot and Daphne were playing Jane Bagot and me.

  “Love fifteen,” said Derry, and served out of court.

  His second service was treated as it deserved.

  “Sorry, my dear,” said Derry. “I seem to be out of form. If only Jane were better – a bad opponent invariably puts me off.”

  The game went to deuce four times, but we won it at last.

  Three all. We were very evenly matched.

  Surrounded by limes and chestnuts, the court was a pleasant court, and its turf was good. Since we were ten years old, we had, all of us, larded its earth. It knew no tournaments. Always we played for pleasure – and nothing else. Not even for exercise. So, I think, games should be played. On one side, a miniature terrace served lookers-on; from a height of four feet, one could see the play very well.

  I was about to serve, when Berry appeared.

  “Lake – and friend,” he said. “They feel they’d like to see you. I’ll take your place.”

  “And here’s trouble,” said Derry. “Who have you killed?”

  “Very secret,” said Berry. “We’ll tell you as soon as we may.”

  “Espionage,” said Derry. “And you be careful – one of my aunts is French.”

  I took my coat and made my way to the house…

  The Assistant Commissioner was speaking.

  “So, you see, it’s a very big thing. Your blind man is the wallah we’ve wanted for years. He is ‘above suspicion’, but now we’re under his guard.” He pointed to the packet beside him. “That’s going back tonight. If it’s been looked for, we’re sunk. But I hope the box will be cleared on Sunday next. Whoever clears it will never be out of our sight. In that way, we should get home – by which I mean that we should get your blind man.

  “That packet contains twenty sovereigns – for information received. It also contains two pages of information desired – highly important information, in the sight of the German Naval Staff. But that information, it says, is not to be put in that box. ‘Method Q’ is to be followed. That’s why we must trail the recipient by day and night. By using ‘Method Q’ he will lead us to your blind man. And then we shall be home, for his finger-prints are all over his questionnaire.”

  “Any time limit, sir?”

  “Happily, yes. He says he must have what he wants by July the nineteenth. Must. I believe there’s something coming – anyway, that’s what he says. I shouldn’t think we’ll need you. I hope we shall take him red-handed. But if we do, I take it you’d know him again.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  �
��I might,” said I. “I daren’t put it higher than that. With his grimace, I’d know him anywhere. But he was thirty yards off, when he made his face. And that’s some way, sir.”

  The Assistant Commissioner nodded.

  “Go on.”

  “I’ve a vague idea of what he looked like – before he made his face. He had a curious look. His face was faintly suggestive of that of a skull. Square and grim. That’s the impression I had – at thirty yards. I’m sorry I can’t do better, but there we are.”

  “Not at all your fault, Mr Pleydell. You’ve done very well. And you’re up against a big shot. He was ready for you, but you weren’t ready for him. But at least you’ve noticed the man – which is more than anyone else has ever done.

  “Now I hope very much that X – that’s the petty traitor – will lead us to Y. But, just in case he doesn’t, please bear Y’s face in mind and keep your eyes wide open wherever you go. You never know – you might see him crossing Pall Mall. Bear him in mind, Mr Pleydell, wherever you go.”

  “And if I should see him, sir?”

  “On no account lose him. As soon as you can, call a policeman and say that he’s to detain him and ring my office up. Wait a minute – I’ll give you a card.”

  He took out a pencil and wrote on a slip of paste-board—

  The bearer has my confidence. Do as he says.

  “That will show you two things, Mr Pleydell. First, that I trust you implicitly: and, secondly, how very badly I want this man.”

  I saw our guests off and made my way back to the court. But I was not thinking of tennis. My thoughts were of Minever Lane and the man whose face had been altered when he was thirty yards off. Square and grim – that was right. Faintly suggestive of a skull. And something else…

  Seven weeks had gone by, and the Judge and I were at Forage, when a letter from Berry arrived.

  July, 1914.

  Dear Brother,

  I am happy to inform you that the Riding Hood match is over, and, that except for a cracked rib, I am whole. I am still more happy to inform you that Mr Frederick Ballast, surnamed The Butcher, is, however, halt and like to stay halt, if not for years, at least for the remainder of the season. I tell you these glad tidings that you may hasten to the nearest place of refreshment and there order and consume a gallon of malt liquor to the honour and glory of St. Bertram of White Ladies, whose belated canonization is to be celebrated by the installation, equally belated, of a small soak-pit behind the Post Office.