Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  “If I have to sock him,” said I, “he won’t have the picture-clock. But if Nobby could tree him, I don’t think he’d wait for that. After all, he may not return. I’ve thrown him quite a good fly. And I fear he considers us sticky. He didn’t care for the Central Criminal Court, and he felt very strongly that he should have been asked to stay.”

  “What here?” said Berry. “Oh, go on.”

  “He’d brought his suitcase. He said so, before he went. I sat in the hall and listened. They’re a funny lot at Chunkit. It seems that if I went there, to force somebody’s hand, I should be loaded with gifts and fêted for several months.”

  “Or robbed and murdered,” said Berry. “Don’t you go. Never mind. Let’s hope and pray that Beyond the Mules is sold. That’ll be enough for Coker. Lunch at Bell Hammer tomorrow? Or am I wrong?”

  “No, that’s right,” said Daphne. “But I forgot to tell you – Sir Andrew won’t be there. He can’t leave Town until Tuesday. So, as he wants to see you, he’ll lunch here on his way down.”

  Sir Andrew Plague, KC, was a notable man. He was also a survival. Few brains could compare with his: his temper was that of a bull: his personality was devastating. Rough as he was with them, his servants worshipped him. Since his marriage with Lady Touchstone, some ten months back, he had become less fiery; but, once he was roused, Sir Andrew knew no law. We liked him well and held him in great respect – and I like to think he liked us, for there were, in fact, few houses to which he would go. My brother-in-law and he were co-Trustees.

  “Good,” said Berry. “Er, good. Has the household been warned?”

  “It will be. And he’s sure to bring Spigot with him.”

  Let me put it like this. When Sir Andrew went visiting, his valet was quite invaluable – not so much to Sir Andrew as to his host.

  “I think, perhaps,” added Daphne, “that just while he’s here, The Bold should be out of sight.”

  “I entirely agree,” said Berry. “Two such majestic personalities would almost certainly clash. I mean, when Sir Andrew’s mellow, he looks at you as if you were dirt, and The Bold’s imperious stare would send the blood to his head. By the way, where’s The Bold to sleep?”

  “Well, I thought in Boy’s room.”

  “Not on your life,” said I.

  “But, darling, he won’t feel lonely if Nobby’s there.”

  “But—”

  “What could be better?” said Berry, unctuously. “And if he wants to go out about half-past three – well, then he can go, can’t he?”

  “This is monstrous,” said I. “You took him on. I heard you promise that Chink—”

  “I was very careful,” said Berry, “to use the passive voice. ‘The dog,’ I said, ‘will be cared for.’ Besides, at three a.m. life’s at its lowest ebb. If I were aroused about then, it might be the end. And what if it’s raining? Am I eating Arthur’s Seat? It’s really extraordinarily good.”

  “Arthur’s Seat?” screamed Daphne.

  “I mean, Dover Sole,” said Berry. “When I was Judge Jeffreys, I used to buy my gooseberries at Turnham Green. Some years later, when I was on the Bloody Assize, the apprentice that gave me short measure gave evidence for the defence. And there you are. As I said to him before sentence, be sure your sin will find you out. It upset me terribly.”

  There were now many cars abroad, but the roads which we used the next morning were little known, and for much of the way we had no company. With one consent, we drove slowly, for the country was looking its best, and, since it had rained in the night, the air was as sweet as the prospects on every side. The timber was especially lovely. There was a bulwark of woodland, thick and close as tapestry laid upon the arm of a chair: yet, when we stole beside it and could see its warp and its woof, a glancing, diaphanous mansion, lodging zephyr and sunbeam and fit for the pretty progress of Shakespeare’s maids. And here, at a corner, was standing a wayside oak – the very embodiment of England, slow, resolute, majestic, unearthly strong: one mighty branch hung over the way itself, offering shade and shelter and printing upon the road its splendid effigy. For those that have ears to hear, such trees give tongue. Then there were hedgerow elms – jacketed men-at-arms, that took up their escort duty four hundred years ago. Four magnificent chestnuts were squiring a Norman tower, and a quarter of a mile farther on two copper beeches, new burnished, filled the eye. So the pageant went on, with lime and ash and walnut, still taking their ancient order, while a watch of firs upon a hilltop still did its sober duty by many a mile.

  So we came to Bell Hammer, just as the stable-clock was telling the time. A quarter to one.

  As we left the car, Valerie Lyveden came running across the lawn.

  “My very dears, how are you? Anthony’s changing – he only got back from his village ten minutes ago. And how is everything?”

  “If you’re thinking of Town,” said Berry, “it’s now one large, steep place – with the Gadarene swine rushing down it, by day and night. We’ve pulled out at last, but, once you’re going, it’s terribly hard to stop. But we’ve come to hear news – not give it.”

  “First tell me – how’s White Ladies?”

  “Looking up,” said Daphne. “I’ve got the laundry going, I’m thankful to say. The money it’s going to save us. Half our stuff has been ruined by sending it out.”

  “Laundry!” cried Valerie Lyveden. “I can’t even staff the house.”

  “Yes, but the future’s assured. When Anthony really gets going, you’ll have a waiting list.”

  Two things had happened to Lyveden within the year: he had inherited a very great fortune and had married a very rich girl. Young and able and active, he could not fold his hands; but even while he was wondering what he could find to do, the little village of Pouncet, lying at the gates of Bell Hammer, had come to be sold. And many acres with it. Lyveden had bought them forthwith, and now was to use his fortune to make of Pouncet an Auburn of 1924.

  Here the new landlord appeared…

  “But this is absurd,” said Berry. “He can’t go about like that. He must wear a large double-Albert and tails and a square felt hat. He must carry a stick with a knob, which he holds to his chin, suck his teeth before speaking and—”

  “Be quiet,” said Daphne. “Anthony, where are the plans?”

  “On the billiard-table – all ready. When you’ve digested them, I’ll take you down to the borough and see what you think.”

  “What about the pub?” said Berry.

  “I’ve had a find there,” said Lyveden. “They’re pulling one down at Bristol, which is over two hundred years old. I’ve got the bar and the shelves, two beautiful old bow-windows, full of original panes, the floor and a lovely fireplace and four good doors.”

  “You don’t mean to say you let the cellars go?”

  “But I’ve got a peach of a sign-board: The Godly Shipman – that’s a new one on me. Another pub’s going at Portsmouth, and I’ve got the settles from that.”

  “And the village hall?” said Daphne.

  “I’m copying one from Oxford – of course, on a tiny scale: that’ll make one side of a quad. Almshouses on the others, with a porter’s lodge and a gate. But that’s all to come. Water and light and drainage come before everything else. Of the present habitations, five out of six are outwardly very nice: but most are far too small: so, as the leases fall in, I shall just knock two into one.”

  “You can do what you like?” said I.

  “Pretty well, I think. Sir Andrew’s behind me there. I can make certain rules. No char-à-bancs, for instance. No tea-rooms. I will not have a resort.”

  “It’s fascinating,” said Daphne.

  “Well, I want it to be Pouncet’s show. They’re a very decent lot, and it is such a pretty spot that I hate the idea of their drifting into the towns.”

  “Almshouses,” said Berry. “Along three sides of a square. Will you want as many as that?”

  “Touché,” cried Valerie. “That’s a concession to
architecture.”

  “Then devote one side to your staff. Do as they do in France, and let some live out.”

  “What a tidal brainwave,” said Valerie, clapping her hands. “Next door to the hall, and all. And when they grow old in our service, they’ve only to cross the floor.”

  Here Lady Plague arrived.

  “I insist upon knowing,” she said. “Have you told them about the baths?”

  “Not yet,” said Anthony.

  “Discourse,” said Berry. “Discourse.”

  “Well, it’s silly to put in bathrooms, so I’m having a bathhouse built. That’s going under the hall. Hot water every, evening from six to nine: hot water every morning for washing clothes. I don’t know whether it’ll work.”

  “What could be better?” said Berry. “‘The flesh at night, the vest and drawers by day.’”

  “Really!” said Daphne.

  “Gluckstein,” said Berry. “I mean, Goldsmith. Out of The Converted Village. I remember it perfectly. ‘And those who came to wash remained to bathe.’”

  “Berry,” said Lady Plague, “I give you best. The Converted Village alone is worth a weekend. And you’re only going to have lunch.”

  “Come and name our new cocktail,” said Valerie, “and you shall stay for a month.”

  As we followed her and my sister into the house—

  “You know,” said Lady Plague, “it’s like sawbones.”

  “Sawbones?” said I.

  “Yes. That silly game that everyone was playing before the war. There were family quarrels about it. When someone had done two-thirds of Rembrandt’s Night Watch—”

  “You mean, jigsaws,” said I.

  “Do I? Never mind. They used to give them to the sick – a most extraordinary procedure. If I was ill, the last thing I should want to do would be to reconstruct Rembrandt’s Night Watch. But as we’re all well and strong we’ve fallen for this new game. Andrew’s quite silly about it. The billiard-room is our wash-pot. The table’s been covered with cork, and the cork with plans. And we have a board for ‘Ideas’. What are you thinking, Boy?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Berry and Anthony Lyveden were not to be seen.

  “Strictly between you and me, is Pouncet going to like it?”

  “Of course not,” said Lady Plague. “Pouncet is going to loathe it with all its might. It’ll loathe the pub and the hall and, except to pinch the soap, it won’t go near the baths. The drainage it regards as an insult – that we know. And, to mark its disapproval, half the village will leave – and cut off its rotten nose to spite its rotten face. But Anthony’s ready for that. Their homes will be swept and garnished, and then will be possessed by disabled ex-service men. That’s what’s at the back of his mind. He’s got a young architect who’s lost a leg in the war, and he’s ear-marked a sergeant-major to run the pub.”

  I sighed.

  “It’s a great thing,” said I, “to be a monarch. If we owned Bilberry…”

  “What then?”

  “You must ask Berry,” I said. “The sorry tale is his.”

  The cocktail was very good. Berry named it Dry Auburn – which I thought was better still.

  Appealed to at lunch, he related our tale of woe.

  “This,” he said, “is a Saturday afternoon. By rights, we should be playing cricket – and putting Gamecock or Dovetail where they belong. That we are not is due to our Mr Doogle, an unattractive swine, for whom humanity falls into two classes only – blood-suckers and wage-slaves. Mr Doogle appeared in the village some eighteen months ago. That he came in haste and by stealth cannot, I think, be denied, and Doogle” – he spelt it – “seems to me a queer name. The less sympathetic suggest that his surreptitious arrival was due to a desire to avoid bloodshed and that, had he remained in the North, more than one of his veins would most certainly have been opened in the crudest possible way. To this view, I incline, for he has been heard to boast that, while his conscience prevented him from serving his King in the field, such was his personal energy in fomenting strikes that, during the critical years, he cost his country more than a million working hours. Now our Mr Doogle is cunning – I’ll give him that. Of White Ladies he speaks no ill. Instead, he continually proclaims how fortunate – nay, blest the village is in such a neighbour. With a loud voice, he applauds our condescension in worshipping in the same Church, in patronizing the same shops, in joining in the same games as ‘the common man’. He begs the village to consider how much it costs us so to demean ourselves. Finally, when I came out of Church after reading the lessons, he led the cheers. There were, of course, no cheers to lead. Well, I give the brute best. Our Mr Doogle has done his job – the job he is paid to do, for he has money to spend, but he does no work. Every gesture we make is now suspect. The old fellows love us still: but the younger – see through us. Class hatred has come to stay.”

  A painful silence succeeded Berry’s words.

  Then—

  “I’m not surprised,” said Valerie. “White Ladies was bound to stand high on the Communists’ danger-list.”

  “And what of their agent?” Lady Plague’s eyes were afire. “Better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck. My God, what fools people are!”

  “What,” said Anthony Lyveden, “is Doogle like?”

  “Undersized,” said Berry. “A rat of a man. Thin, reddish hair, and protruding eyes. Age about forty. Can you place him?”

  “I think I can. I believe his true name is Elgood – that would be Doogle reversed.”

  “Well done, indeed,” cried Daphne – and spoke for us all.

  “Go on,” said Berry. “Go on.”

  “Well an agitator called Elgood left Durham early last year. On the eve of an inquest on a woman who took her life. He’d been blackmailing her. Some search was made for him, but no charge could be made and so he wasn’t pursued. The coroner was – very outspoken. I happen to know these things, because the woman was the wife of a sergeant-major I know. He was once my first servant, and I hope he’s coming to Pouncet to run the pub. As a matter of fact, he’s coming to Bell Hammer next week. Warren, his name is – one of the best of men. And I’ve little doubt that he’d like a word with Elgood – or, as he once described him, ‘that little red rat’.”

  “He can have it,” said Berry, “for certain on Saturday night. From what Fitch, our chauffeur says, that’s guest night at The Rose. Doogle’s guest night, I mean. He dilutes his doctrines with whiskey. After two or three rounds, they turn into obvious truths.”

  Anthony fingered his chin.

  “You mustn’t be on in this act, and neither must I. I’ll have a word with Warren, and you have a word with Fitch. And Warren shall report to Fitch at nine on Saturday night. I think it must be the man.”

  “It must be,” said everyone.

  “If it is,” said Lyveden, “when he’s discharged from hospital, I feel that he will cross Bilberry off his map.”

  “Let’s hope he tries Pouncet,” said Berry. “By that time Warren will certainly be installed: and when Doogle limps into The Godly Shipman, in search of a double Scotch – well, he’ll feel the world’s against him, won’t he? And now to return to our moutons (very low French). I understand Pouncet is peevish – doesn’t want to be washed and brushed. If you want to disperse her dudgeon, set up an elegant conduit in the midst of your quad. This must have two pipes – one connected to the main water, and one to the pub. And then on high days and holidays, such as the anniversary of the discovery of smallpox, the fountain can run with beer.”

  Neither Berry nor Daphne nor I will ever forget the highly fantastic trick which Fortune played before us upon the next day but two.

  For Sir Andrew Plague’s visit, arrangements had been carefully made. The Bold had been confined to the housekeeper’s room – a sentence for which he had summoned his most indignant stare. Nobby had been bathed and cautioned. A simple lunch had been ordered – Sir Andrew liked plain food. His appetite being healthy, a cold steak-an
d-kidney pie – a delicacy to which he was partial – was in reserve. And the household was standing by at a quarter-past twelve.

  Since I was upon the lawn, but the others were in the house, I alone of us three saw the outrage take place.

  At five and twenty to one Sir Andrew’s car had turned in at our entrance-gates, when a van turned in behind it and then, by the use of its hooter, demanded way. Sir Andrew’s chauffeur naturally took no notice, for, apart from anything else, the drive was very ancient and, therefore, none too wide. Upon this, with his hooter screaming, the driver of the van deliberately forced his way by, compelling Sir Andrew’s chauffeur to take his car on to the turf and over the roots of a tree.

  As Berry and Daphne appeared, the van was pulled up all standing before the door, and Coker Falk flung out and ran to its back. As he and his accomplice were lifting out a large picture, the car came to rest, alongside, but slightly in rear.

  Sir Andrew was half out of his window, stick in hand.

  “You murdering blackguards,” he roared. “You bloody-minded felons. Lemme out of this car, Spigot. I’ll show them what murder means. I’ll teach them to cram their betters on private roads.”

  It was a fearful business.

  Sir Andrew was enormously fat and a giant of a man. His face was normally red, but now it was blue. He had leaned so far out of the window, that now, when he sought to do so, he could not retire: indeed, had the door been opened, he must, I think, have gone with it, and Spigot wisely refrained from doing as he was bid.

  Coker Falk disregarded his yells, addressing Berry and Daphne, as though the stage was his.

  “Well, folks, I guess you’ll allow Coker Falk can do his stuff. Don’t you notice this boyo: he’s only sore ’cause I pushed him. When Coker Falk is moving, wise guys get under the seat. See here, Charming, you couldn’t afford these cunning compositions – Junior told me so: an’ so I’ve brought them along, to hang in the old ancestral in place of the picture-clock.” He ripped its wrapping away, to expose Beyond the Mules. “You’ve got to stand back for this one.” Here he stepped back – within range. “But once—”