Never Too Late

by Angela Thirkell

  George went gently past the summer-house resolved not to hear his father’s voice, but if a voice will speak up so that one cannot pretend one does not hear it, what is one to do?

  “That you, my boy?” said Mr. Halliday.

  George, choking down an unfilial impulse to say “If you didn’t know it was me why did you say my boy?” stopped and turned.

  “I think so, father,” he said. “But there was such a noise at Mrs. Morland’s that I might have been anybody. Edith was there and her brothers and young Crosse and Dr. Ford and some other locals—” which relegation of himself to limbo would not at all have pleased George Knox.

  “Sit down, boy,” said his father, “I can’t hear you very well.”

  George, though at heart inclined to shout in his father’s ear as the Johnny Cake did to the Fox, came into the summer-house and sat down on one of the rickety cane chairs.

  “I only said Edith and two of the Graham boys were there,” he said. “She sent you her love,” which was a pious lie, but appeared to give Mr. Halliday pleasure.

  “A very nice girl,” he said. “It’s time she came to stay here again.”

  “She is staying at High Rising with Mrs. Morland, father,” said George.

  “Do I know anyone at High Rising?” said his father.

  “Mrs. Morland lives there,” said George, manfully doing his best to keep irritation out of his voice. “Edith is staying with her.”

  “Who?” said Mr. Halliday.

  “Edith Graham, father,” said George, in a kind voice for which his recording angel must have dropped several tears on his charge-sheet. “She. Is. Staying. With. Mrs. Morland.”

  Instead of answering, as most deaf people would have done, “Don’t talk so loud as if I were an idiot,” Mr. Halliday most meanly spiked George’s guns by apologizing for being so deaf and a nuisance.

  “Oh, rot, father,” said George and sat quietly till his father dozed off again, when he got up and went away to the farm, certain that things had gone wrong just because he went out to tea. But nothing had gone wrong and what was more he found when he came in a little later his sister Sylvia Leslie in the drawing-room with his mother, which cheered him up immensely, for Sylvias life was going well and she looked more happy and handsome every year.

  “You simply must come over to Rushwater soon,” she said to George. “Martin’s leg has been better since they found a splinter somewhere and hoicked it out. It won’t stop him limping but he has much less pain and the children are all very well and longing to see you.”

  “That they are not” said George. “Last time I was at Rush-water your Eleanor, who is after all the eldest, said I was Mr. Miacca. What she meant I don’t know, but I didn’t like it.”

  “Oh George!” said his sister in mild reproof. “You must remember Mr. Miacca. If little boys came to his house he always ate them. A lovely story.”

  “Of course I remember it now,” said George. “And I think Tommy Grimes hid under the sofa and poked a bit of wood out when Mr. Miacca wanted to feel his leg, like Hansel and Gretel. We had it again and again when we were small. Sometimes when I think of the terrifying stories mother read to us and how we didn’t care in the least, I wonder if Horror-Comics really do any harm.”

  “Of course they do,” said Sylvia. “Martin says so and he must know because of being on the Bench.”

  “Good Lord,” said George and then apologized, saying he had mixed it up with going before the Beak.

  “Did you see your father?” said Mrs. Halliday, rather over-anxiously George thought. He said he had found him in the summer-house and they had had a little talk.

  “You know he thinks there is a mortgage on this house and we shall all be ruined like the Sowerbys’ grandfather over Chaldicotes way” said Mrs. Halliday, but this was very old history even in her youth, so her children dutifully paid no attention.

  “And how was Edith?” said Mrs. Halliday, who had become very fond of her during the past year.

  “Edith? Oh she was all right” said George and even his sister Sylvia, who had had suspicions for the past year, could not tell whether he really didn’t care or was pretending not to care. “Lord! how George Knox does talk—the one who writes the biographies. But his wife is awfully nice and we all went on the river in their boats, except Edith. Mrs. Morland is awfully kind. She didn’t mind a bit when we all came without being invited and she’s giving Mellings two very nice suits that one of her sons has grown out of.”

  Sylvia said, thoughtfully, that Ludo’s wrists and ankles seemed to be getting not quite so long and bony at last, and then their talk drifted, as it mostly did, to the care of their various properties and the prospects of the Bath and West.

  “We are sending Rushwater Ratcatcher, said Sylvia, adding rather apologetically that they were getting short of R names and some of them were too silly, like Rantipole or Ruskin.

  “And I’ll tell you what, as Mrs. Sam Adams says,” said George. “We can’t do cows or bulls here. But we are sending some young pigs to the Barsetshire Agricultural. My hat! they are pigs. Sir Robert Graham’s bailiff let me have one of his White Porkminsters for breeding last year.”

  “How on earth did you manage?” said Sylvia, for the bailiff Goble was notoriously chary of letting any of his boars out of his sight.

  “I let him talk to me,” said George simply. “It always pays.”

  Sylvia looked at her brother admiringly and then she had to go home in the chill air of that odious early summer.

  “There is only one thing that comforts me a little about your father” said Mrs. Halliday, who had decided to speak freely of her husband’s health with her son, because it was but too evident how poorly he was. “He does love a fire in the evening, so I can have one without feeling guilty.”

  “But why guilty, mother?” said George.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Halliday. “An old habit I suppose. In the war one always felt guilty if one was comfortable.”

  And you passed it on to me, mother,” said George. “Never mind, we will both grumble and laugh at one another’s grumbles.”

  CHAPTER 2

  We need hardly say that the following Saturday, the day of the cricket match at Southbridge School, was as nasty as it could be. Not raining yet, it is true, but grey and chill with a wind that came from all quarters at once—or so Mrs. Morland said.

  “If you would rather not go, we needn’t,” said Mrs. Morland to Edith after breakfast, hoping privately that her guest would agree, but Edith said of course she would love it unless Mrs. Morland didn’t want to, so that Mrs. Morland had to say of course she wanted to and had only wondered. So they got into Mrs. Morland’s rather disgraceful car, which she drove far better than anyone would have expected from her, and went away to Southbridge, though not by Barchester which was the better road, for on a Saturday one never knew if one would meet several distracted bullocks in Barley Street, or a flock of sheep trying to walk over each other’s backs in the High Street. Mrs. Morland took the other way, over the downs, across the river above Boxall Hill, by Stogpingum and the outskirts of Ullathorne (now entirely swallowed by Barchester), past Plumstead Episcopi, and so down to the school. To Edith’s joy the first people she saw were her Leslie cousins who made an uncommonly handsome trio in their white flannels. Though they all had Christian names they had always been Major, Minor, and Minimus at school and appeared likely to remain so for the rest of their lives.

  “How lucky it is that you all have white flannels,” said

  Mrs. Morland, who usually said the first thing that came into her head.

  “Well, it’s rather bogus,” said Minor. “I have to wear Major’s old bags, but Minimus is broader than I am, so he can’t wear mine, but Major can, so Minimus wears his own. They are all about the same vintage, so it doesn’t really matter. If only the match could have waited for the Sales, we could have got some bargains.”

  “The Sales are over now,” said Mrs. Morland, who knew boy
s inside out and felt that a little deflation would do Minor no harm at all.

  “And who gets a new pair first?” said Edith.

  “Intelligent girl,” said her cousin Major, who was silent by nature.

  “It rather depends on birthdays,” said Minor. “A man sometimes gets quite good tips on his birthday. Anyway I’m still growing so I’ll have to have a new pair. It’s like the fox and the goose and the bag of corn. Look here, chaps, we’d better look after the parents.”

  Mrs. Morland said she could only see the goose, which temporarily silenced the too ebullient Minor and with courtly bows the three boys withdrew to find seats for their father and mother in the pavilion. At this moment Matron came up, quite ravishing in a flowered silk dress, rather short according to the fashion of the moment, a fresh hair-do, and one of those little straw hats that grip the head with what look like crooked lobsters’ claws.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Morland,” said Matron. “Now this is a day of joyful surprises. Only last night after supper I was pressing my nylon slip and panties, for really we are all nylon-minded now, Mrs. Morland, and there was a tiny run in one of the legs and as you know though nylons don’t run the way some materials do, still a stitch in time saves nine, as they say. So as I was saying, I thought I’d better just darn over it, just in case, and it made me think of that time your son, Mrs. Morland, and that nice boy Swan only really we must say Mr. Swan now since he married the Honourable Miss Lufton, helped to clear up the mess. The night that was that Hacker—but really I must remember to call him Professor Hacker now—let the bath run over because he had mislaid his spectacles and really as I was saying to Jessie—you remember our head housemaid Jessie, an excellent worker but say what I will I cannot get her to wear her spectacles— well now, what was it I said and really Mrs. Morland I sometimes feel I am quite a mental case and I had ought, perhaps, to retire and live with my married sister—you know Mrs. Morland, the one who has the son who is head wireless operator in one of our biggest liners.”

  To Edith’s great admiration Mrs. Morland, who had listened with apparent interest (though it would not have deceived those who knew her best) to Matron’s excursion into what her old friends called Jessie-land, said she must find a seat in the stand before it was full, as the sky looked rather threatening.

  Mrs. Morland was then greeted by various other old friends, including Miss Hampton and Miss Bent, the inhabitants of Adelina Cottage down in the village, who pressed her warmly to come in for a drink after the match.

  “It rather depends on the weather,” said Mrs. Morland, looking at the sky which was beginning to present a drooping rather than an auspicious eye. “I have Edith Graham with me—Lady Graham’s youngest daughter.”

  “Verb, sap.” said Miss Hampton, shaking hands warmly with Edith. “Maxime debetur and so on, Mrs. Morland. We know. Don’t give it another thought. Bring her along.”

  “Little did I think to see you at a cricket match mamma,”

  said a voice from behind Edith. “My wife and all four children are at the sea—dreadful place—so I am en disponibilite. Mamma,” and he gravely kissed his mother’s hand, “present me.

  “This is my youngest son, Tony,” said Mrs. Morland, no whit taken aback. “This is Edith Graham, Tony. She is staying with me. And Miss Hampton and Miss Bent of course you know.”

  “All come and put one down after the match,” said Miss Hampton.

  Unfortunately I have to get back to Town,” said Tony. “My troublesome employers at the Ministry of Interference have asked me to do some homework for them. I only escaped for the Honour of the School. Thank heaven there is a river here, so I never had to play cricket, dreadful game. I must go and say the right things to the Carters, mamma, before I leave.”

  Conceited child,” said his mother, without animus, as he went away. “But an excellent husband and father” she added for the benefit of Edith and the Adelina Cottage ladies. “Would you like to go to Miss Hampton’s party?” she asked Edith, as the Adelina Cottage ladies were talking to someone else.

  “Oh—I don’t know,” said Edith, suddenly feeling shy, a feeling which seldom came her way.

  “Well, we’ll see,” said Mrs. Morland comfortably. “And now we had better get seats in the pavilion because there isn’t much room and it looks like rain. What a summer.”

  The pavilion, by courtesy, was a rather shabby affair, mostly used by boys who wished to cultivate a reputation for eccentricity, the rest preferring to sit on the ground, or on a few benches with rickety legs. And there is something to be said for the open air where at least you know the worst at once, as against a kind of wooden steps with no backs so that you sit on the toes of the people behind you, with draughts that come sideways or down the back of your neck, not to speak of a corrugated zinc roof which is not altogether watertight. Here they found Edith’s uncle and aunt, the John Leslies, who had come to see their boys play. Not that either of them was particularly interested in cricket, but among the many sacrifices one makes for one’s young, looking on at their childish sports is one. They were pleased to see Edith who was able to present them to her distinguished hostess.

  “This is nice,” said Mrs. Leslie. “I have bought every one of your books, Mrs. Morland, ever since the first one—that was Dressmakers in Danger, wasn’t it?”

  Mrs. Morland, who was perennially surprised and flattered that real people (in her own words, though we doubt if she knew exactly what she meant) should like her highly respect-worthy pot-boilers, responded suitably and at once fell into talk with the Leslies about various county matters and how Lord Stoke had been so rude (though in a way suitable to the representative of one of the oldest baronies in the West of England) to Lord Aberfordbury (he who was Sir Ogilvy Hibberd) about the footpath under Bolder’s Knob. Edith, rather out of it, was however quite happy watching the scene on the cricket field where the white flannels were gradually congregating.

  We shall not attempt to describe the cricket match, our knowledge of that great game being almost as limited as that of the young lady in the du Maurier drawing who asks what happens if the bowler is out before the batsman. Suffice it to say that Old Boys surprised in themselves, as Count Smorltork so well put it, pretty well every variety of age and status, including an Air Vice-Marshal, an ex-Solicitor-General, an Admiral of the Fleet and a financial genius who had served two years in prison for fraud on an unprecedented scale and was now out again and on the up and up; not to speak of a stiffening of younger Old Boys, of whom Leslie Major was the youngest. Faced with such a side, the stoutest team might have quailed, except that no single one of the elder gentlemen had played for at least ten years and in some cases not since their joyous Schoolboy or University Days.

  “If you come to look at it,” said John Leslie to Mrs. Morland, “some of the other side are a pretty rum lot. And I don’t think the Vicar—Colonel Crofts—has played since he was in India about fifteen years ago and his excellent batman, Bateman—confusing, but it’s his name—has only taken it up within the last few weeks, to oblige. Those two assistant masters aren’t bad. I expect you remember them, Mrs. Morland. Traill played for his University and I think Feeder for his college. Matron’s nephew—he is a wireless operator in one of the big liners—is very good at deck tennis, I understand, but that is hardly the same. Both sides have a pretty poor tail. In fact our own Greshamsbury team could give them fifty runs any day.” But people are notoriously untruthful about their own side.

  By now the pavilion was housing a quite reasonable-sized audience. The numbers for the score board had been sorted and stacked in readiness and the white-clad figures—though we must regretfully say that many of the flannels were rather yellow by now and some, on closer inspection, bore distinct marks of where the moth had got at them—were assembling. Matron, who had been hopefully preparing a kind of small first aid station under the pavilion, suddenly emerged halfway up the steps which led from the underworld to the sloping seats and looked round, rather like
that depressing Erda in Rheingold.

  “I wonder what Matron wants,” said Minimus. “I bet she’s hoping someone will have a black eye or a broken nose. I say, who’s umpiring?”

  “Edward, of course, you fool,” said Minor, pointing to the Headmaster’s perfect manservant dressed in a white coat like the gentlemen on the posters who used to paint RIPOLIN on one another’s backs.

  “Fool yourself, it takes two to make an umpire,” said Minimus. “Who’s the other?” and he pointed to a white-coated figure talking with Edward.

  “I don’t know,” said Minor. “Look out, she’s coming at us,” which was a disrespectful and quite unnecessary way to speak of Matron.

  “Well, Mrs. Leslie, this is indeed a pleasant surprise,” said Matron.

  Mary Leslie very nearly said it would be more surprising if she weren’t there, as her eldest son was playing.

  “Indeed a Day of Surprises,” said Matron, “for, do you know, Mrs. Leslie, we were really quite in a turmoil this morning because Mr. Brown at the Red Lion was going to umpire and his sciatica came on suddenly. He rang up to tell me, so I popped down to the Red Lion to see if I could do anything, but he had most sensibly gone to bed with some Thermogene round him, so I just ran up to have a word with him and you will hardly credit it, but the room had quite a little smell of brandy. Well, I thought to myself, brandy may be the best thing for sciatica, but I wouldn’t give it myself with no Doctor’s Advice, so I said could I do anything to make him comfy, but he was just a wee bit peeved which one can quite understand with the pain. ‘Nothing I can get for you, Mr. Brown?’ I said, just in case there was something he wanted and I could have fetched it. ‘No thank you, Matron,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some Thermogene round my leg and I’m just moistening it with a little brandy to get a bit more pep out of it,’ which of course explained the smell, for it is extraordinary, you know Mrs. Leslie, how the smell does cling. Well, to make a short story of it, poor Mr. Brown had used the last of the brandy for the Thermogene, so I said ‘Well, Mr. Brown/ I said, ‘you can’t go downstairs, but I can,’ so I went down to the bar to ask Eileen for some brandy for Mr. Brown and there was a young man sitting there and he looked at me—not a nasty look if you know what I mean, but just a LOOK, and he said: ‘Don’t you remember me, Matron, and the Christmas party here, the first year of the war?,’ and then it all came back to me, quite a flash-back as the saying is.”