A Tale of Two Families

by Dodie Smith

  ‘I should think around ten guineas. More than enough for a little freak but nothing like enough for a potential champion.’

  Penny’s owner then returned and said that she couldn’t, after all, bring herself to part with the dog. But she finally agreed to accept ten guineas for her, provided she could eventually offer a mate for Penny and have the pick of the litter.

  ‘Not that I want her to have puppies,’ said Corinna. ‘Surely she’s too nervous?’

  ‘Best thing in the world for her,’ said the tweedy lady, heartily. ‘But not at her first heat, which will be in a couple of months or so. You’ll have to be very careful of her then.’

  ‘I’ll explain all that,’ said Sarah. ‘We’ll take Penny now and Corinna will send a cheque and you can send the pedigree. We’d better have a taxi.’

  While the taxi was being telephoned for Corinna said, ‘I didn’t want her till Easter, when Hugh’ll have four days to be with her.’

  ‘Well, I’ll keep her at the Hall till then,’ said Sarah. ‘We must take her now in case the old girl changes her mind again.’

  The taxi came and Penny was borne off in triumph – to be car-sick all the way home. Fortunately the driver was sympathetic and gave them a large newspaper. Sarah tipped him handsomely when they reached the Hall.

  ‘Don’t let me forget to settle up for this and for the bus fares,’ said Corinna, who had come out without money. ‘Oh, poor little Penny.’

  ‘She’ll be all right now she’s on solid ground,’ said Sarah. ‘Wonder what her house-training’s like? Not that it matters while she’s here. I’ll bring her over on Good Friday, on my way to church. Got to fly now or I shall be late for grandfather’s lunch.’

  Corinna, hurrying home across the park, reflected on the fact that ten guineas would make a sizeable hole in her quarter’s allowance. Should she ask her father to pay, or at least, help? No, this must be entirely her present to Hugh. How he would adore Penny! Everybody would, including Prue and Dickon who would soon be home. She felt a warm glow at the thought of bestowing so much pleasure. Roll on, Happy Easter!

  6

  Corinna would have preferred to call for Penny the very first thing on the morning of Good Friday but, like the rest of her family, she had a strong feeling that the Hall must never be encroached on. So she waited, watching at her bedroom window, until she saw Sarah and Penny setting out. Then she hurried out and met them halfway.

  Sarah, by then carrying Penny, said, ‘She’s not used to being on the leash yet. And she’s not fond of walking. Lots of young dogs aren’t. They enjoy playing but don’t care for solid exercise.’

  ‘Perhaps their legs get tired – and hers are such little legs.’ Corinna gently took a floppy paw. Penny gave the impression that she would like to take her paw away but really hadn’t the strength.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s still very nervous,’ said Sarah. ‘But sometimes she’s quite skittish and she wasn’t frightened of the spaniels who were all very fatherly to her. And she’s already house-trained except that if you pet her it’s apt to turn on her waterworks. Of course you mustn’t scold her for that because it’s sheer emotion – happens with lots of bitches and they grow out of it. Still, it’s best not to pet her when she’s on a carpet, and be careful of your lawns; bitches make brown patches on them. It’s ammonia or something – burns the grass. Hello, there’s Hugh.’

  He was coming to meet them. Corinna would have liked to be alone with him when she sprang the surprise of Penny on him but could hardly ask Sarah to make herself scarce. Sarah, however, said she must go or she would be late for church.

  ‘We’ll be coming with you on Sunday,’ said Corinna.

  ‘Wish you were coming today – for my sake, not yours; Good Friday’s rather a gloomy service.’ She handed Penny over, waved to the approaching Hugh, and sped on her way.

  Hugh, on reaching Corinna, said, ‘Hello, has Sarah got a new dog?’

  ‘No, you have,’ said Corinna. ‘She’s Penny, a replacement for Bonnie, at last – with my love.’ She held the little dog out to him.

  His first reaction was one of dismay, instantly followed by fear that he might have shown it. He smiled broadly and said, ‘Darling, how marvellous!’

  ‘Take her,’ said Corinna, finding it difficult to hold the now wriggling Penny.

  ‘Let’s put her down. Here, give me her leash. She might bolt.’

  But Penny, once on the ground, merely rolled on to her back. Hugh knelt and scratched her stomach, trying to get his feelings sorted out. He had been dismayed largely because he would have preferred to choose a dog for himself, and he would certainly have chosen another lost dog. But one could not dislike this appealing pink stomach where dark spots were showing through the sparse hairs. And it was adorable of Corinna to give him a dog. Never must she know he wasn’t pleased. And damn it, he was pleased, of course he was. His eyes met Corinna’s as she, too, knelt beside Penny, and he no longer had anything to hide. Corinna was an angel, Penny was enchanting – anyway her stomach was. He gently turned her over and managed to keep her on her feet long enough to examine her.

  ‘She’s a bit like Bonnie, isn’t she?’ said Corinna, anxiously. ‘Except for the spots. And she’s perfect except for being rather small. She’s really – well, a miniature Dalmatian.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Hugh heartily. ‘All dogs should be available in miniature sizes.’

  ‘Anyway, she may grow a lot – and even if she doesn’t, she might become the mother of champions. I’ve bought a book on Dalmatians for you but only had time to skim through it.’

  ‘Let’s go back and study it.’

  On the leash, Penny either sat down and refused to budge, or pulled in the opposite direction. Let off the leash, she started for the Hall and was caught with some difficulty.

  ‘Perhaps she’s missing the spaniels,’ said Corinna. ‘You’ll have to carry her, like Sarah did.’

  ‘Just as well she’s a miniature.’

  At the cottage, June, Robert and Prue welcomed Penny and then they all went with her to the Dower House where again she was warmly received – too warmly for her self-control.

  ‘Sarah warned me about that,’ said Corinna, ‘but she’ll grow out of it. And it’s only on the rush mat.’

  ‘I don’t approve of fussiness in country houses,’ said May. ‘But just keep her out of the front rooms. Those carpets are valuable. Oh, dear, it’s happened again. I must buy lots and lots of towels to mop up after her. And of course she must have toys.’ May’s eyes brightened at the thought of something to shop for.

  ‘Let’s play with her outside,’ said Prue.

  ‘And let’s not all play with her,’ said Dickon. ‘There are too many huge creatures towering over her.’

  The four younger Clares escorted Penny through the French window. Corinna decided to forget Sarah’s warning about the lethal effect female dogs had on grass. One really could not protect all the grass in the countryside.

  ‘I hope Hugh won’t get too fond of that dog,’ said Robert. ‘He suffered such agonies when he sent Bonnie away.’

  ‘So did Corinna,’ said May. ‘I’ve often thought that was when this trouble between them started.’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly call it trouble,’ said George.

  May sighed. ‘Oh, well…! What’s everyone going to do? Why don’t you all go out? It’s a shame to waste this sunshine. What a marvellous spring! I can’t remember one wet day since we came.’

  ‘I can,’ said Baggy. ‘There have been ten.’

  ‘Funny how they’ve vanished from my mind,’ said May. I do remember how it rained the day we moved in but somehow that belonged to London weather.’

  George said there had been plenty of rain in London but it had cleared up when he got home in the evening.

  ‘No,’ said Baggy firmly. ‘There have been days when it rained from when I got up until I went to bed.’

  Robert said, ‘Remembrance of weather is so subjective; the weather
becomes part of what one was feeling when one experienced it. In a way, we’ve invented our truly magnificent spring.’

  June felt a pang of concern for Baggy. He could hardly have been sharing the general bliss if he’d noticed the rainy days enough to count them. She also felt a pang of guilt, because she was so much enjoying not sharing a house with him. Robert and she could now eat just what they liked and eat it just when they liked; they particularly liked it on trays by the fire when there was something worth watching on television. They enjoyed weekend meals at the Dower House but they were fairly firm about staying in their own tiny home on weekday evenings – though they were always delighted when George joined them. He invariably said that May was ‘busy making jam’. May had long ago decided that she could buy better jam than she could make but for George the phrase covered any activity of May’s which caused him to be left on his own.

  It occurred to June now that when May was ‘making jam’ and George was at the cottage, Baggy must be having a lonely evening. But May had recently told her that he seemed to want to retire to his own room after dinner.

  ‘Well, I must get on with lunch,’ said May, and declined June’s offer of help. ‘There are three Matsons in the kitchen positively fighting each other for jobs. I must say they get a bit underfoot but I can’t turn that old mother or that skinny daughter away before they’ve had their meal. Oh, do go out-of-doors, all of you.’

  But only Baggy went. George, Robert and June sat around in the Long Room, fully contented to do so, though they lamented that there were no Sunday papers on Good Friday.

  Out on the lawn the younger Clares lolled in the glorified deck chairs recently acquired by May. Penny, finally exhausted by too much attention, went to sleep between Hugh’s legs with her head on his stomach. He felt both honoured and cramped.

  Dickon said, ‘On the whole, I am favourably impressed by this place.’

  ‘Me, too,’ said Prudence.

  But they refused to carry out Hugh’s suggestion that they should churn up a little vocal enthusiasm. Dickon said, ‘One must not patronise one’s parents. If I hated everything perhaps I’d pretend a little – it would only be kind. But as I consider they’ve made a good choice I can afford to be natural.’

  ‘Anyway, they’d see through it if we went all lyrical,’ said Prue. ‘And they must know we’re pleased as we haven’t criticised anything. Not that we should have any effect on them. They’re pretty well drugged with satisfaction.’

  ‘Drugged’s not the right word,’ said Dickon. ‘Our parents are looking at life through the clear eyes of youth.’

  Corinna got her book on Dalmatians and read it aloud (practising her diction) and, by the time May came out to see what Penny would take for lunch, Hugh had definite views about diet for young Dalmatians. ‘Plenty of meat and milk and not too much starch. You really mustn’t overfeed her, Aunt May.’ He dislodged the sleeping Penny, complained of pins and needles in places he didn’t know one could have them, and went with his aunt to choose suitable food. May passing through the Long Room, again implored everyone to get out into the sunshine. ‘You can’t just sog here all day.’

  But they could. Apart from a short tour of the garden to admire daffodils and almond blossom, and the time spent on admirable meals, Good Friday was mainly spent in sogging, around a log fire that was an insult to both the sunshine and the central heating. But on Saturday a walk and a drive were undertaken – there was surprisingly little traffic if the main roads were avoided – and Prue and Dickon explored the village. Hugh and Corinna had done this long ago and simply concentrated on Penny who fluctuated between somnolence, playfulness and sudden attacks of abject terror.

  ‘I think she must be more nervous than most puppies,’ said Hugh. ‘Not that she’s really a puppy at eight months old.’

  ‘She’s young for her age as well as small for it,’ said Corinna, and wondered if dogs, like humans, could suffer from arrested development – not that she mentioned this far from cheering idea.

  On Sunday Hugh much regretted that he had said he would go to church and no longer wished Corinna to go with him – ‘One of us must stay with Penny.’ Corinna was more than willing but pointed out that they would both have to leave her on Tuesday morning.

  Hugh said he realised this only too well but every day would make a difference and Prue was going to take special care of Penny.

  ‘And we’ll ask Sarah to look in every day,’ said Corinna. ‘Do explain to her why I’m not coming with you today; she’s expecting me. And you’d better hurry. She’ll be waiting for you outside the church.’

  On his way to the village Hugh failed to remember ever before going to a church service – unless weddings counted. At school religion had been taught on the same lines as history, with no particular religion favoured. One was, of course, free to believe in anything one liked but, on the whole, the intellectual climate had been anti-religion and he and Corinna, having no religious background, had soon decided it simply didn’t matter. Hugh felt one should be reasonably good for the sake of being reasonably good, and not for the sake of religion. Corinna felt that if anyone could be as good as Hugh without the prompting of religion, then religion was unnecessary.

  But, approaching the very beautiful old church, Hugh asked himself if he wanted such churches to be pulled down, fall into decay, or merely exist as memorials of a dead cult. He found he did not. He wanted other people to keep them alive – which could only be done if other people believed in what he did not believe in and, in fact, disapproved of. Difficult, very. Anyway, he’d suspend disapproval for this morning. If one accepted hospitality one must not sneer at one’s host.

  Sarah, waiting in the porch, said there was time for a walk round the churchyard. She wanted to hear how Penny was settling down. ‘And once we go into the church we shall have to whisper.’

  Hugh found it hard to believe that Sarah could whisper. She was now, possibly to compete with the church bells, talking very loudly and in her most metallic voice. Like the rest of his family he found her voice hard on the ear but he had discovered that one could get used to it – much as one got used to the noise of traffic.

  Sarah, after being given an almost hour by hour report on Penny, said, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t bring her to church. My grandmother always brought her pug.’

  ‘Good gracious! Didn’t the Vicar mind?’

  ‘Oh, not at all. He said lots of dogs came to church in the eighteenth century and there was a man to stop them barking and fighting. The pug never barked, just snuffled a bit – and lots of people snuffle in church. There was plenty of room for her basket as we have one of the old box pews – next to the pulpit, so it’s always noticed when I’m late. We’d better go in.’

  Hugh had never even heard of a box pew. He found that this one resembled a small, square room, with a seat running all round it, a miniature fireplace and wooden walls nearly five foot high. There would have been complete privacy had not the pew been exposed to anyone standing in the pulpit and looking down.

  ‘Do you ever have a fire in the fireplace?’ Hugh whispered.

  ‘My grandmother tried it one icy winter but the smoke nearly asphyxiated us – and the Vicar. So we settled for hot-water bottles and foot muffs. The church has a bit of central heating now; not much, but the idea helps.’

  ‘Prod me when I have to kneel or stand or anything.’

  ‘Well, it’s the done thing to kneel when you first come into a church. Don’t if you don’t want to but excuse me for a minute.’

  She knelt and he knelt too. The nearest to a prayer he could get was ‘Good will to everyone’ – to which he found himself mentally adding ‘Especially Corinna and Penny.’ Really! Shades of Christopher Robin! Sarah got up from her knees and he did too. The service began.

  His main impression was of extreme restlessness. Stand up, sit down, kneel, get up again, find the hymns, sing, murmur – there was never a peaceful moment. He had rather looked forward to sitting back and loo
king at this ancient building while thinking of all who had worshipped here in the past, but if one spared a moment for private thought one got behind with the service. He soon began to look forward to the sermon when – presumably – one could take a rest.

  He quite liked the hymns, especially as Sarah’s voice was tuneful – astounding, seeing that even her murmured responses were metallic. His own responses were merely a blurred noise. Corinna had once told him that stage crowds often say ‘Rhubarb, rhubarb’. He tried this and found it worked well, though Sarah did give him one surprised glance.

  As he had expected, the sermon came as a relief, especially when he discovered that the Vicar looked across the pew, towards the congregation, so one could let one’s eyes stray to the various monuments, hatchments and wall plaques, most of them connected with the Strange family. He was glad there was no stained glass except for some small, pale sections, which he guessed to be very old, let into the large clear windows. His eyes finally rested on the altar brasses where the brilliance of the cross had such a mesmeric effect that a gentle nudge from Sarah was needed to make him realise that the sermon was over.

  He felt a distinct sense of shock when he learned that Sarah was going to Communion. ‘Wait for me, will you?’ she whispered, ‘unless you’ll come along, too, and somehow I don’t think you will.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Hugh, who considered Communion a sort of symbolic cannibalism. How could people? He watched the rite with something approaching horror.

  During the walk home he asked what, exactly, it had meant to her. She said, ‘Well, nothing much, really. But the Vicar would be hurt if I didn’t take it sometimes. He confirmed me.’

  ‘But surely it’s the heart of the Christian religion,’ said Hugh. ‘Either one ought to believe in it utterly or have nothing to do with it. To me, it’s just terribly nasty. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Sarah equably. ‘As a matter of fact my grandmother felt the same.’