A Tale of Two Families

by Dodie Smith

  If only it would stop raining! George, though basically euphoric, was also mercurial. Robert was well aware that his brother’s last-minute caution was genuine and even sensible – but the rain simply wasn’t fair. It would bias George’s judgement.

  In the lane to the Dower House the overgrown hedges brushed against the car.

  ‘Probably scratching the paint to bits,’ said George.

  ‘They seem to be very young, gentle twigs,’ said Robert, enchanted to feel so close to the coming spring.

  The white gate was open. George drove on to the gravel, then pulled up and said disconsolately, ‘I can’t believe it’s the same house.’

  ‘Did you never before see it in the rain?’

  ‘Never. I came once in the spring and then on a marvellous autumn day. And the last time – when I came with the surveyor – there’d been a fall of snow and the whole place looked like a Christmas card. Well, thank God it’s still not too late.’

  They drove to the front door. George, who had studied Sarah Strange’s letter, knew where to find the key – and got wet in the minute he took to find it. Why couldn’t they keep the blasted key inside the porch?

  He had barely unlocked the door before a clear, hard, female voice called loudly, ‘Hi, there!’ He started, turned and saw a tall figure, dressed in an ancient Burberry, rubber boots and a particularly hideous waterproof hat, coming across the lawn. ‘Vicar’s wife or something, probably thinks we’re trespassing,’ he whispered to Robert and considered going to meet the approaching female; then merely called ‘Good morning.’ No point in getting wet.

  The woman, who had a stride like a man’s, reached them in seconds and said loudly, ‘Don’t come near me. I’m dripping. Just let me strip.’

  She flung off the waterproof hat and began taking off the Burberry. George frankly gaped. Minus the hat she was possibly the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Then he hastily helped her with the Burberry. He didn’t say anything because she gave him no chance. She continued non-stop.

  ‘I’m Sarah Strange. We met the first time you came to see my great-aunts but you won’t remember. Anyway, I hope you don’t. I was a mountainous girl of fourteen. For years I was afraid I had elephantiasis.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t got it now,’ said George. She was slim, even in a pullover and two cardigans. He put the Burberry down on one of the porch seats and introduced Robert who, while admiring the girl’s beauty, was feeling slightly deafened by her voice.

  Sarah, leading the way into the hall, said, ‘I’m just back from London. Did Mrs Clare come down yesterday? Oh, yes, here’s a message.’ She read what May had written, then turned to George. ‘It says that she and you will be coming tomorrow.’

  ‘So we shall,’ said George. ‘But my brother and I happened to be in the locality today so we thought we’d drop in.’

  ‘I bet you wanted to look round on your own, and I don’t blame you. Just let me stoke the heating – if it’s still in – and then I’ll point out all the snags. Oh, will you be using the cottage?’

  Robert nervously wondered if this hard-voiced young woman would kick at having two families when only one rent was being paid. But when George outlined the plan for the cottage she merely said, ‘Oh, good. That little house needs living in. It’s a pet.’

  They were now in the kitchen where, refusing offers of help, she was soon emptying hods of coke into a stove. ‘The thing’s fairly antiquated,’ she told them. ‘Of course you could go a bust and change to oil-fired central heating.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said George.

  Robert felt cheered. George’s mental mercury was rising – Sarah Strange had counteracted the rain. She proceeded to point out various defects in the kitchen but was assured by George that he would take care of them. Finally she said there were a few things upstairs she ought to warn him about.

  Robert said, ‘I’d rather like to look at the cottage just on my own. The rain seems to be letting up a bit.’

  ‘Anyway, take my Burberry,’ said Sarah. ‘It’ll cover most of you. Actually, it’s my grandfather’s. I’ll show you the way.’

  She accompanied Robert to the front door, helped him into the Burberry, and pointed out the small gate leading from the garden into the park surrounding the Hall. ‘Go straight on along the edge of the lilac grove.’

  ‘Then it is lilac?’ said Robert. ‘My wife hoped it was.’

  ‘My great-aunts had a mania for it. They settled here when they were quite young and planted and planted, letting it run wild. There’s every conceivable shade of mauve. When poor old Aunt Katie was too crippled to walk I used to push her round under it in her bath chair.’

  George, at the door of the drawing room, now reclaimed Sarah’s attention. ‘Ah, this must be one of the wallpapers my wife was so impressed by.’

  There would be no backing out now, Robert decided. Blithely he sped on his way.

  Once in the park he saw the Hall. June had said it was gloomy. To Robert it was also fascinating, stimulating to the imagination. Could one write a present-day Gothic romance – or rather, an anti-romance? Nothing he ever wrote was romantic. But today he felt romantic. Could one so treat romance that it was no longer a word to be despised, as it was nowadays? Could one fumigate the sentimentality out of romance? One might, if the romance included no love story – and he never did write love stories. Or did the word ‘romance’ imply a love story and, if so, had it always and need it?

  But before he had answered his own questions he had come to the cottage, stopped thinking of himself as a writer, and been overcome by a desire to paint. The little black-and-white house, flanked by stiff poplars, was asking to be painted. And he’d painted rather well while still at school. Might try again, might be a Sunday painter.

  The key! He’d forgotten to ask for it. Then he remembered June saying it had been under the mat. He found it, entered, instantly knew the cottage was perfect; then raced through it wondering if there was any room he could grab as a workroom. Perhaps the smallest bedroom, if they did without a spare room. But that bedroom was over the kitchen, there would be noise. Then he found the loft and claimed it. The perfect workroom and with a wonderful view of the Hall. Of course he would write about the Hall, and the book he would write about it would not only be his usual critical success; it would also appeal to a vast public. One didn’t hanker to be a bestseller for the sake of the money (what nonsense; of course one did) but one did long to reach the minds of the many, as most of the really great novelists had done. What was the secret? Intensity of feeling, surely…

  His feelings became so intense that he lost count of time and only came back to earth when some church clock chimed the half-hour. What half-hour? He hastily looked at his watch and found it was twelve-thirty. He must have been here the best part of an hour. God knew what defects that hard-voiced, unnecessarily honest girl might have pointed out. Some might be serious.

  He gave one last loving look around, praying it might not be a farewell look, then hurried back to the Dower House.

  Before he reached the gate from the park he caught a glimpse of George and Sarah sitting on the window seat of a wide bow window. Seen thus, without being heard, Sarah certainly gave no impression of hardness. Indeed, there was something madonna-like about the pure oval of her face, her wide apart eyes and serene brow – except that Robert couldn’t for the moment think of any very dark madonna. Sarah’s hair, with its pronounced widow’s peak, was almost black. She wore it scragged back into a bun.

  Unfortunately her voice, which he heard as soon as he entered the hall, was even harder than he had remembered, positively metallic. But at least it enabled him to locate the room she and George were sitting in.

  She greeted Robert with, ‘Well, did you hate it?’

  ‘No one could hate it,’ said Robert fervently.

  ‘I ought to have warned you there’s no central heating there and the bath’s cracked. Of course you noticed.’

  Robert, who had noticed neith
er the absence of central heating nor the presence of the crack, assured her that open fires would be enough for such little rooms. And George said he would provide a new bath.

  Sarah, with a gentle smile, said in her harshest tones, ‘The things you plan to do! We ought to pay you to live here.’ She then looked at her watch and said she must dash. ‘Grandfather doesn’t like me to be late for meals. I’m sorry I can’t ask you to lunch but he doesn’t quite know about you yet. Anyway, our food’s always awful.’

  ‘I suppose he will sign the lease?’ said George.

  ‘Yes, he’s promised. But he seems to have an idea that some old ladies – like his sisters – are coming here and I thought I’d let him go on thinking it until the lease is signed. He’s not round the bend, you know; it’s just that sometimes he’s a bit… sort of withdrawn. Well, he’s had a lot to withdraw from, what with family deaths, and no money, and the Hall liable to fall on top of us. If you hear a terrific crash that’ll be what it is. Now I really must rush. See you and Mrs Clare and’ – she smiled at Robert – ‘your Mrs Clare, tomorrow. Oh, it’s raining again. Could I have my Burberry?’

  Robert helped her into it. She gave them both a last smile and hurried out.

  George, watching her from the window as she strode across the park, said, ‘What a very beautiful girl.’

  ‘Pity about her voice,’ said Robert.

  ‘What’s wrong with her voice? Sounded all right to me.’

  Robert stared, then felt uneasy. If George really hadn’t noticed that voice… He looked his brother in the eye and said, ‘How old would you say she was?’

  ‘Twenty. She happened to mention it.’

  ‘Same age as Corinna.’

  George looked defensive. ‘I am aware of my daughter’s age. Was that remark supposed to mean something?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robert firmly. ‘For God’s sake don’t start anything here, George – right under May’s nose.’

  ‘You’re crazy. Just because I was reasonably pleasant to the girl…’ He broke off and surprisingly added, ‘All right, Robert. Thanks for the warning. Dalliance with Sarah is out.’

  Robert believed him. It wasn’t always easy to tell when George was lying but Robert could usually tell when George was speaking the truth; a confusing distinction but Robert knew what he meant by it. He said heartily, ‘Thank you, George.’

  As for George, the mention of May had reminded him of his main reason for living in the country. Goings-on were not to be under May’s nose. It simply wouldn’t be fair. A pity, rather, because he had been attracted – and he’d known several girls of twenty who hadn’t been put off by a little age gap of twenty-five years. But fair was fair.

  ‘Now we’ll chase some lunch,’ he told Robert cheerfully.

  ‘You wouldn’t like to see the cottage?’

  ‘It can wait till tomorrow when the girls are here.’

  ‘You’re sure about taking the place now?’

  George looked surprised. ‘Of course. I told you I was ninety per cent certain. It’s an excellent proposition, even if that nice, honest girl did point out some defects.’

  Ah, but that nice honest girl’s beauty had discounted the defects – and the rain. Robert felt deeply grateful to Sarah Strange. Might put her into his Gothic anti-romance – her voice was certainly anti-romantic.

  He took a quick look round in case George had left a cigarette burning. It would be a pity (and quite a bit Gothic) if the house burned down overnight. Then he followed his brother out through the driving rain to the shelter of the car.

  3

  Baggy was alone in his bedroom.

  The removal van had gone. Robert and June, after seeing it off, had gone too, he to the Onlooker offices, she to Liverpool Street Station. May and June, going by train, would get to the Dower House before the van. Baggy was to lunch with George in the City and then, in the late afternoon, George would drive him and Robert to the country. Everything had been carefully planned by that arch-planner, May. Baggy was fond of May but not quite as fond as he was of June, whereas he was fond of Robert but not quite as fond as he was of George. Well, in the country he would gain George without losing Robert and June. And May was a superb cook.

  He looked round the denuded room. The bed still remained, May having persuaded him to let her supply one more suitable for a bed-sitting-room. A really comfortable one, she had assured him. It was no use pretending the bed he had slept on for nearly fifty years was comfortable. It had, in fact, three sags, the middle one made by him during the years since his wife’s death. Still, he was fond of that bed, which had been the latest thing when he and Mabel chose it: reddish mahogany inlaid with yellow satinwood.

  Well, it could remain here quite safely, and probably for a considerable time. For Baggy, until his retirement an astute house agent, considered this a bad time to sell the house. ‘Just think of it as money in the bank for you,’ he’d told Robert. ‘And later on it’ll be more money.’ Robert had of course agreed with the utmost vagueness – hopeless to discuss business with Robert. George had undertaken to keep his finger on the pulse of the property market.

  Not that Baggy couldn’t do that himself. Often he wished that he hadn’t retired – and at sixty-five, much too early. But it had seemed unavoidable. For nearly a year after Mabel’s death he hadn’t been normal. It wasn’t simply her death that had shattered him; it was also the manner of it. He’d come round after a week of coma without the slightest memory of the accident – though they assured him he must have seen the out-of-control truck that had hit them, for he had braked, swerved, done all the right things. All he recalled was sitting in the car beside his wife discussing the holiday they were setting out on; he distinctly remembered asking her if she was getting too much draught from his window. And he was suddenly asked to believe that she was dead, cremated, her ashes scattered. Instructions for that were in her will, as they were in his; but somehow it made her death harder to take in for a long, long time.

  But of course he had accepted it eventually and, he supposed, got over it. Still, leaving this house… He pulled his thoughts up. It was people, not places, that counted and he was singularly lucky: two sons, two daughters-in-law, four grandchildren, and he was on excellent terms with all of them. You be thankful, he told himself, that you’re not a lonely old man.

  He made sure the windows were closed and latched, then gave one last look at the bed. Damn it, he wished he’d insisted on taking it. May and her bed-sitting-room ideas! Well, his huge wardrobe and dressing table would put paid to those and quite right too. A bedroom was a bedroom, even if you sat in it.

  He’d better take a look over the whole house. June was none too reliable about latching windows. He went up to the top floor: excellent rooms, they could be converted into a flat. He assessed the potential rent. Then he went down and paid a last visit to the bathroom. He’d always liked it, a good square room and you could warm it up by opening the cupboard which housed the hot tank. The dressing table had been left behind – June said there would not be room for it. Automatically he opened the drawer to get his comb but June had packed it with all his other bathroom belongings. Better buy a pocket comb on his way to the Underground. With hair as thick as his, he needed one. Even thicker than Robert’s, it was, and had once been even fairer. It had gone white early, a nice clean white. He glanced in the dressing-table mirror. Odd to think it had reflected his face for nearly fifty years. He couldn’t remember how he had looked as a young man, couldn’t go back further than, say, his early forties when he’d looked much as Robert did now. Though he’d never been handsome, as Robert was, and always much heavier.

  Strange that he should be so unlike George, when he felt so much closer to George than to Robert. George was like his mother, the same eyes and that wonderful smile.

  The thought of meeting George for lunch caused him to survey the rest of the house briskly. Hugh’s room, Prue’s room, the big room used by Robert and June… but they were all big rooms in hi
s good, solid house. Downstairs the sitting rooms were still fairly full of furniture, his furniture. He’d offered it to June but she’d said it would be too big. She’d taken all the stuff she and Robert had first set up house with, small, inexpensive things; they’d had only a tiny house. Baggy liked to think how much more comfortable they’d been since coming to live with him.

  Well, that was that. He closed the front door and tested that it was closed. He felt slightly uneasy about leaving the house all on its own but it was fully insured and the police had been notified.

  A pity it looked like rain. June had so hoped to have a fine day for the move.

  May, scurrying into the Dower House porch, said, ‘Have we ever come down here when it wasn’t raining?’

  ‘It wasn’t that first day,’ said June.

  ‘The sun wasn’t shining. Still, if we’ve liked the place on dreary days it’s a good test.’ She unlocked the front door and said happily, ‘Almost too warm, isn’t it?’

  The taxi driver followed them in, carrying two suitcases of food. Sarah Strange had undertaken to get in bread and dairy products but May was taking no chances on such things as meat, and had come prepared to feed her family, and June’s, until she could get the hang of local shopping. It was the same taxi driver who had first brought them to the house and he said this was a good omen. May, as she overpaid him, heartily agreed. ‘Though why it should be, I can’t think,’ she remarked to June, as he went.

  They unpacked the food in the kitchen and Long Room (now its official name) and then awaited the removal van. May’s ‘line’ on the Long Room had come off handsomely. She had happened to mention to Sarah that she wanted a long, scrubbed pine table, whereupon Sarah had offered one from a disused kitchen at the Hall. Smuggled in to see this, May had also collected a dozen kitchen chairs, a low dresser to use as a carving table, and four red leather armchairs from an Edwardian smoke-room unsmoked in for a good forty years. (Sarah had shown May this room and others but allowed no glimpse of old Mr Strange.) Thus equipped May had only had to buy curtains (handwoven, beige and white) and some heavy rush matting, and might have found such economy thwarting had she not gone to town on new furniture for all the bedrooms – which, as she pointed out, was necessary as she could not denude the flat.