Cluny Brown

by Margery Sharp

  “Any news, Mr. Syrett?” asked Mrs. Maile ritually.

  “Nothing of importance,” replied Mr. Syrett. “Things seem to be pretty well settling down again.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Her ladyship has just told me we’re to expect a friend of Mr. Andrew’s for a long stay. A foreign Professor.”

  The butler’s expression at once became extremely reserved. He distrusted all friends of Mr. Andrew’s, never having recovered from a Long Vacation made hideous by a Cambridge film society. It was his private belief, which he would have died rather than admit, that the heir of Friars Carmel was not equal to his fine position.

  “That’s better than actors,” consoled Mrs. Maile.

  “Foreign,” said Mr. Syrett darkly.

  “Foreigners may be quite distinguished persons,” retorted Mrs. Maile—who never forgot that she was the senior, in that household, by some three years.

  “If connected with the Diplomatic, yes.”

  “Which he well may be. For when Mr. Andrew went abroad he took letters to the very best circles; and a person Mr. Andrew met at one of our Embassies is quite good enough for you and me. A quiet gentleman too—recovering from an operation—he’s not likely to give trouble. Will I ever forget,” said Mrs. Maile pointedly, “the goings-on of that young woman!”

  This was a shrewd hit; for the advent, a year previously, of the Honourable Elizabeth Cream, now known as “that young woman,” had been greeted by Mr. Syrett with the most reckless enthusiasm—prophecies of an Announcement, even plans for a Celebration. Alas for his hopes: Miss Cream’s visit coincided with a week of superb weather. At the drop of a hat she stripped and sun-bathed—or rather, a hat was the only thing she didn’t drop … Mr. Syrett tacitly withdrew his objections to the Professor by changing the subject.

  “Have Postgate’s been able to help you, Mrs. Maile?”

  The housekeeper relaxed into her habitual calm.

  “They are sending some one, for which I suppose I should be thankful. Twenty, and untrained. However, as I remarked in my reply: better no training than bad.”

  IV

  Before going to tidy for lunch Lady Carmel put her head into her husband’s study and found him writing. As his physical powers declined, making hunting impossible, Sir Henry had taken to the pen; all over the world the friends of his youth began to receive very long, very dull letters from him. To Rhodesia, Tanganyika, Singapore; Australia, India, New Zealand and the Bermudas—Sir Henry’s epistles went forth; for he never considered it worth while to write to any one nearer at hand. So the letters took a long time to get there, and the replies even longer to get back, and all the news was out of date; and this gave his correspondence a peculiar timeless quality which was very soothing.

  “Harry, dear,” said Lady Carmel, “did Andrew speak to you about his friend?”

  “The gangster chap? Yes, he did,” said Sir Henry.

  “Dear, he isn’t a gangster. I’m sure of that. You’ve got it mixed.”

  “Difficult to make head or tail of,” admitted her husband. “Andrew says he’s a gentleman, and I trust the boy’s judgement. Something about the stables,-too, so I hope he cares for horses. Do you know who he is?”

  “Yes, dear, I do,” replied Lady Carmel. “And you must pay attention, because for some reason Andrew feels very strongly about it. He is a Polish Professor who got into trouble with the Nazis. Andrew thinks they may still be trying to do him a mischief, but of course that’s quite ridiculous, and what I think, dear, is that the Professor said he wanted a really quiet holiday, which is very natural, and Andrew imagined the rest. He always was romantic.”

  “Poor fellow,” said Sir Henry—referring to the Professor. He had devoted his life to blood sports, and had one of the kindest hearts in the world.

  V

  Thus layer by layer, without any conscious effort, the oyster that was Friars Carmel smoothed and overlaid its grain of sand, producing, like a pearl, a distinguished Professor, met at a British Embassy, recovering from an operation, and fond of horses.

  No such process, naturally, was applied to the hew parlour-maid.

  Chapter 5

  I

  Cluny Brown arrived at Friars Carmel in a Rolls-Royce This was not the original plan; she should have been collected, along with a parcel from Harrod’s, by the gardener with the station wagon; but at the last moment it was discovered that the gardener had gone off to look at a mower, and the car was out with Lady Carmel. Mrs. Maile thereupon telephoned the stationmaster, who reported Colonel Duff-Graham on the platform; and Colonel Duff-Graham expressed great willingness to drop anything for Friars Carmel. He did not quite bargain for a parlour-maid—he himself was meeting a Golden Labrador, a nervous traveller who would require all his attention; but as things turned out the Labrador-had already been met by Cluny, who, wandering about the train, discovered the glorious creature in the guard’s van and spent the rest of the journey with him. They jumped out together, both very glad to stretch their long legs, and the Colonel hurried towards Roderick with the stationmaster at his heels. The stationmaster knew Cluny at once, because she was the only person on the platform he didn’t know already.

  “Miss C. Brown,” he stated.

  Cluny admitted her identity, and the situation was rapidly explained. They went out to the Rolls; Cluny of course should have sat in front, but Roderick tried to climb over to her with such persistence that after half a mile the Colonel stopped the car and took her in behind. The Labrador at once cast himself over her knees like a beautiful rug.

  “He’s taken a fancy to you,” said the Colonel.

  “I talked to him all the way down,” explained Cluny.

  “Did you, by Jove? That was uncommon kind,” said the Colonel warmly. “He’s a nervous beast.”

  “He’s lovely.”

  Taking a quick look, the Colonel decided that this was more than could be said for herself: a homelier young woman he’d never seen. Not that it mattered, in a parlour-maid; and at any rate she didn’t look vulgar. With great kindness he began to point out objects of local interest, good views, and barns that needed repairs.

  “How far is it to Friars Carmel?” asked Cluny.

  “Matter of six miles. Five to the village, six to the house.”

  “Are there any dogs there?”

  “No, there aren’t,” said the Colonel, rather disapprovingly. “Sir Henry’s old terrier had to be put down last year, and he won’t have another. Very natural, of course. You got a dog?”

  Cluny shook her head.

  “My uncle won’t let me. He says London’s no place.”

  “Sensible man. Ought to be a law against it.”

  “Could I keep a dog at Friars Carmel?”

  “I don’t see why—” began the Colonel; and paused. For the last few minutes he had quite forgotten he was talking to a parlour-maid, but now he remembered. Well, of course she couldn’t keep a dog; parlour-maids didn’t. “I doubt it,” said the Colonel hastily.

  Cluny said nothing; but she turned her black eyes upon him in a most mournful look. What a look it was! At once bright and liquid, tragic and brave, innocent and deep. Colonel Duff-Graham was quite startled. It was indeed no more than the look of any young woman feeling thoroughly sorry for herself, but the Colonel was not in the habit of observing young women at close quarters. (He had indeed a daughter, of whom he was properly fond, but he took her for granted.) And under the influence of Cluny’s gaze a strangely unorthodox notion—his first in years—suddenly struck him: what was the use of treating servants well, giving ’em good food and all that, if you wouldn’t let ’em keep a dog? He felt really disturbed.

  “Tell you what,” he said kindly, “on your afternoon off, you come over to my place, and you can take Roddy for a run.”

  At once Cluny’s brow cleared, her eyes sparkled, she radiated happiness.

  “That’s a date!” she cried joyfully.

  The chauffeur heard them, and was so scandalized that wh
en they reached Friars Carmel he ignored his master’s order to drive up to the house and stopped firmly at the lodge. Cluny embraced Roderick, shook hands with the Colonel, and got out with her bags. For some moments she stood there waving; she waved till the car was quite out of sight; then with a suitcase in either hand she turned and walked slowly through the gates, up the drive, into good service.

  II

  “Take off your hat, my dear,” said Mrs. Maile.

  Cluny, standing rather white-faced in the housekeeper’s room, did so. Her pony tail of hair at once sprang out and up, giving both Mrs. Maile and Mr. Syrett a surprise. (The latter was present purely by accident; as a rule he interviewed only men-servants. But there had been no men-servants at Friars Carmel for a very long time.)

  “We must do something about that,” said Mrs. Maile. “However, I understand this is your first place?”

  “Yes,” said Cluny.

  “Say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ I see we must begin at the beginning,” said Mrs. Maile. “You say ‘ma’am’ to me, ‘sir’ to Mr. Syrett here, and should you be spoken to by her ladyship, ‘my lady.’”

  “And his lordship ‘my lord,’” added Cluny, looking intelligent.

  “Sir,” corrected Mrs. Maile patiently. “Sir Henry is not a peer, he is a baronet—though of far older creation than many. If you have to speak to him, which is unlikely, you say ‘sir.’ Now Hilda will give you some tea, and when you have put your things away, come back to me.”

  Cluny got herself out of the room, leaving Mrs. Maile and Mr. Syrett to exchange commiserating looks.

  “At least she’s tall,” said the housekeeper at last.

  “Looks to me like a young ostrich,” said Mr. Syrett.

  “And clean. I knew I could rely on Postgate’s for that.”

  “You always make the best of things, Mrs. Maile.”

  The housekeeper acknowledged this compliment with a melancholy bend of the head. She could remember the days when Friars Carmel employed six indoor maids, all hand-picked; her mind roved back over the long succession of Gracies, Florries, Bessies, ear-marked almost from birth for service at Friars, graduating in the proper, established order from Tweeny to First Parlour-maid. And Mrs. Maile sighed. If Cluny felt bewildered, so did she.

  “Out of place,” she said gravely. “Times change, Mr. Syrett, and we must change with them; but that’s what I can’t help saying to myself: in a house like this, she is out of place. However, I will take her in hand. And at least, with that appearance, we needn’t expect Hilda’s trouble.”

  “Certainly not,” said Mr. Syrett.

  III

  Dear Uncle Arn,

  This is a very large house to keep clean, looking at it from outside you would say it was hopeless, but Mrs. Maile says not. There are twenty-seven rooms, Queen Elizabeth slept in one of them but I have to share. The other girl is called Hilda. She had a baby last year but Mrs. M. overlooked it. You tell that to Aunt Addie. We wear brown in the mornings, black in the afternoon, get up at 6.30, do the stairs, do the hall, Hilda does the breakfast room, cook gets breakfast, we have ours, do the morning-room, do the beds, do the drawing-room, Lady C. does the flowers. I have seen her once, Mrs. M. took me in and said this is Brown, the new maid. Lady C. said she hoped you’ll work hard and be happy Brown, then Mrs. M. took me out. Is there any way you can tell a wig by just looking at it? This may mean a bob. I also clean brass, darn sheets, no waiting at table so far. Mrs. M. says in a house like this there ought to be a linen-maid, but where can you get them, girls to-day have no sense.

  Your affectionate neice,

  CLUNY BROWN

  P.S. If you want me, I will come back at once.

  Chapter 6

  I

  The circumstances of Andrew Carmel’s acquaintance with Mr. Belinski agreed at no point with the picture drawn by Mrs. Maile. For they hadn’t met at any Embassy; they had met at a party in Hampstead, to which Andrew was taken by Betty Cream, in company with a Cambridge friend, John Frewen. It was the usual rather untidy affair, semi-artistic, semi-literary, and they were all getting a bit bored when John came back from the bar with an astonished expression.

  “Do you know who’s here? Adam Belinski.”

  “What, European literature?” exclaimed Andrew.

  “Never heard of him,” said Betty, who was quite uneducated.

  “Darling, he’s the man,” Andrew informed her. “But I thought they’d jugged him.”

  “No. They just beat him up,” said John grimly. “He was lecturing at Bonn, and said something the Herrenvolk didn’t like. I saw him last year in Warsaw and I recognized him straight away. He’s over there by the piano.”

  They all three stared. The celebrity was standing in a peculiar position, cramped between the keyboard and the wall, as though he had retreated till he could retreat no farther. He was a man in his early thirties, compactly built, with light blue eyes in a square face.

  “He doesn’t look very pleased with life,” remarked Andrew.

  “He probably isn’t.”

  “If you ask me,” said Betty suddenly, “he looks utterly miserable.”

  It was as though the force of their concentration plucked at his sleeve. He turned, for an instant met their three pairs of eyes, and at once turned away again.

  “Come and talk to him,” said Betty. “Ask him what he’s doing here. I believe he loathes it.”

  Too lovely ever to have known diffidence, she marched across the room with the young men at her heels. Belinski watched them come towards him—watched even Betty come towards him—without a flicker of interest.

  “We know who you are,” said Betty, unabashed, “but you don’t know us. I’m Elizabeth Cream, and these are Andrew Carmel and John Frewen.”

  “We are your great admirers,” said John, in German.

  Belinski gave them a grave bow.

  “We are very glad to see you here,” said Andrew, in French.

  He bowed again.

  “And we wondered whether you were enjoying this,” said Betty, speaking her native tongue, “because as a matter of fact, we aren’t.”

  The Pole appeared to turn this simple remark very carefully in his mind. Carefully, in excellent English, he answered it.

  “It is some time since I have been to a party, I feel a little bewildered. But I find it charming.”

  But Betty was unsnubbable. Her bad manners at least gave her ease.

  “Oh, you can’t!” she protested. “You needn’t be polite with us, it’s not our party. How did you get here?”

  For the first time his face relaxed.

  “It is indeed quite strange. I came to enquire after a friend who lived here, but who it appears has gone away. So I was brought in to the party. Why? I do not know.”

  “I do,” said Betty. “Sylvia’s always short of men. But there’s no reason why we should stay if we don’t want to. As a matter of fact, we’re just going to eat somewhere. Will you come too?” She kicked John lightly on the ankle.

  “We should be extraordinarily honoured, sir,” said John Frewen. “That is, if it wouldn’t bore you.”

  Belinski turned his serious glance upon Andrew. It was strange: he spoke English so well, he obviously understood perfectly; yet seemed not to comprehend what he heard. He wanted everything—rechecked.

  “Nothing would give us greater pleasure,” said Andrew formally, “than your company.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, of course now,” said Betty, “before we get caught up. Go and fetch your coats.”

  They had a moment together, the three of them, while Belinski punctiliously sought out his hostess. Betty Cream was in the highest spirits, but Andrew and John looked rather solemn. They realized, as she did not, their guest’s importance.

  “I don’t know how you had the nerve,” said Andrew. “He’s one of the most distinguished men in Europe.”

  “He looked so lost,” said Betty absently. “Where shall we take him?”

  “Claridge
’s,” suggested John.

  “Too stuffy. Let’s go to Soho, to the Moulin Bleu.”

  “We ought to go to the Club,” said Andrew. “Damn it, we ought to be giving him a Dinner!”

  “The Club’s out because of Betty. I still think Claridge’s.”

  At that moment Belinski reappeared. Betty at once took him into their confidence.

  “Would you rather go somewhere where it’s good food but a bit like the grave, or somewhere queer but rather amusing?”

  “I am in your hands,” said Mr. Belinski.

  II

  They went of course to Soho; and minute by minute, all through the prolonged meal, the atmosphere grew queerer. There was no means of getting Belinski to talk, except by direct questioning; and his answers revealed a state of affairs startling in the extreme. To take his itinerary: from Bonn, where the trouble started, he had been going back to Berlin; political events, he said simply, made this unwise; so he went in the opposite direction, to Paris. There he found himself with the name of a trouble-maker: the Polish authorities discouraged his return to Warsaw, the French police took a marked interest in him. He sold a couple of jewelled Orders and came on to London, hoping to find his American publisher, who had unfortunately left a week earlier. On this publisher Belinski still pinned his hopes, for there had been some talk of his going to the States himself; apart from this he was apparently without any plan whatever. In the meantime, from day to day, he lived as in a vacuum. He had a room in Paddington, and spent most of his time in public libraries. He had made himself known to no one, and did not look to be sought out. His melancholy voice gave these facts not reluctantly, but as though they were uninteresting commonplaces which must be rather boring to hear.