The Minstrel Boy

by A. J. Cronin

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘What a sell,’ Desmonde murmured sympathetically. ‘But all rich people are not mean.’

  ‘I’m not rich, Desmonde,’ I laughed. ‘ I enjoy spending money. And I can never, never forget how kind you were to me when my shoes were broken down.’

  We were now at the far end of Burlington Arcade, the driver having kindly taken us the long way round by St James’s. But he duly received his tip – no Londoner ever has a row with his taxi driver, that fatal error is left to tourists.

  At the Piccadilly end of the Arcade we entered a small shop which bore on its signboard the name Budd. Here we resumed our work: viewing, examining, feeling and finally selecting various materials: silk, poplin, cotton. And again Desmonde was subjected to various measurings.

  ‘Now shoes, lad,’ I exclaimed, as we emerged, doubly reassured that everything would be dispatched on time.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, stop, Alec. It’s all far, far too much. You make me feel as if I were going to boarding school.’

  ‘You’re going to Hollywood, you dear idiot. Do you want to arrive in your bloody bare feet? I know from my own experience that those things you’re wearing won’t last much longer.’

  Quite near, a few doors below Lobb’s, shoemaker by Royal Appointment, to whom I had not aspired, we went into the Churchill shop, less famous but equally good.

  My position as a customer immediately rectified the shock conveyed by Desmonde’s horrifying feet. He was seated, the remnants removed, and the usual careful measuring begun. I was glad to observe he had only one small hole in the toe of one of his socks. Finally, after the order had been given for two pairs of black, two of dark brown and one patent leather for evening wear, Churchill tactfully suggested:

  ‘I am sure I have some shoes in stock, sir, that would serve the gentleman until his order arrives.’

  He went into the rear shop and came back with a brand new pair of black shoes.

  ‘The old gentleman who bespoke these, sir, a very old and favoured customer, we’ve had his last for almost fifty years, died before, delivery. Of course we did not press the matter.’

  The shoes fitted Desmonde very well indeed, although Churchill said, disparagingly:

  ‘Not bad, sir. Rather slack across the base of the metacarpals, but they should do for the time being.’

  I thanked Churchill and said we’d take them and to put them on the bill.

  ‘These you’ve got on, your good self, sir, they seem to be wearing remarkably well. Don’t tell me you’ve had them resoled.’

  ‘Good heavens, no, Churchill,’ I lied. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Then it’s my good leather, sir,’ Churchill said, adding sadly: ‘ It lasts for ever.’

  When we got out of the shop I inquired:

  ‘How do you feel standing in a dead man’s shoes, Desmonde?’

  ‘Totally rejuvenated. I can’t tell you what a blessing it is to have something solid on one’s feet.’

  The office of the Italian Line was our last port of call, and here we were fortunate. The flagship of the line, the Cristoforo Colombo, was due to sail from Genoa in ten days’ time. I recognised the girl at the desk.

  ‘Have you a double stateroom available, midships, on the port side?’

  She examined the plan of the ship.

  ‘You may have C 19, if you wish, sir. It is the accommodation you and your wife occupied last year.’

  ‘That would be splendid.’

  ‘Shall I reserve you a table in the restaurant, sir?’

  ‘Oh, please don’t trouble. I’ll see Giuseppe on board – I’m sure he’ll know me again.’

  With everything completed, I turned to Desmonde as we came out to the street.

  ‘Now you’re tired, so no more bussing, but home, James, and don’t spare the petrol.’

  I hailed a taxi and presently we were back and thirsting for tea, which I asked Mrs Palmer to bring up to the study, a cosy, book-lined little room, an addition to the house, that opened off the first landing.

  ‘Any messages, Mrs Palmer?’ I asked, when she appeared with a well-stocked tray.

  ‘Miss Radleigh called from Mellington, sir. Nothing important, she said, some contracts for you to sign, the little boys have gone back to Aylsford and Madam is well and hoping you’ll be down soon.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Palmer, and also for these very good-looking cakes.’

  ‘I hadn’t that much to do, sir, so I just baked one. It’s quite plain, the way you like them.’

  ‘Thank you again for your thoughtfulness.’

  She blushed and looked pleased.

  We were silent, savouring the rapture of our first cup of tea. When I handed Desmonde his second cup he said:

  ‘What a nice way you have with people, Alec. I’ve been noticing it all day. And how wonderfully fortunate and happy your life has become.’

  ‘Yes, I thank God for it on my knees every night.’

  Again I noticed that slight shrinking from the very mention of the Deity. But he persisted.

  ‘You must really be very well off now, Alec.’

  ‘I am not. I have a good income and I spend every penny of it.’ I stood up and moved to the door.

  ‘I must go and telephone my wife.’

  Downstairs in the hall I rang Mellington. It was Miss Radleigh who answered.

  ‘Mum there, Nan?’

  ‘She’s just gone out, round the garden. Shall I fetch her?’

  ‘No, Nan, this is just to say I’ll be down tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh good, I’ve some good news for you.’

  ‘Can’t believe it. Tell Mum I may have a friend with me. It will just be for the day. How is the garden?’

  ‘Coming on lovely. The strawberries are almost ripe!’

  ‘Have you been pinching?’

  ‘Maister! You’re the one with that delightful habit. Besides, Dougal has netted them.’

  ‘Nan, I’m bringing down the big car and will leave it. I’ll take the Morris. Will you mind coming with us to drive it back?’

  ‘Of course not, Maister. But… I hope you’re not going away again?’

  ‘Just for three or four weeks, Nanno.’

  ‘Oh dear. And it’s so lovely down here in the early summer. I shall miss our walks on the Downs.’

  ‘I’ll be back, Nanno. Do rest and take care of yourself. There’ll be bag loads of work when I get home. Perhaps you’ll tell Mum to have a nice light salady lunch for us tomorrow.’

  ‘I will, indeed, dear Maister.’

  I hung up, thinking, what a splendid girl, so good, trustworthy and hard working. What on earth would I do without her?

  At the foot of the stairs I yelled up:

  ‘Like to come with me to Mellington tomorrow?’

  ‘Love it,’ he called back.

  I went into my room, closed the door and lay down on the bed. I still had my letters to go through. But first I’d have a nap.

  Chapter Three

  Next morning after breakfast, coffee and fresh rolls for both, we set off for Mellington. The day was lovely and promised to continue so with a warm sun and bluey-grey skies. Happy to be going home, for Mellington was my home, the little London house no more than an outpost, I felt like singing, but was restrained by the presence of the maestro beside me. How good to see my dear little wife, and Nanno, and to have news of my two sons and to see, with Dougal, how my beloved garden grew. I could not resist the impulse.

  ‘Sing, Desmonde. Something sweet, touching and home-coming.’

  Desmonde never resisted such an invitation. He loved to sing. And so we rolled through the Sussex lanes – I knew all the shortcuts – to the strains of ‘The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond’, leaving behind us a trail of bemused villagers, gazing fearfully through our dust, puzzled as to whether they had glimpsed a mirage or the advance guard of Barnum & Bailey’s Circus.

  But all was quietly expectant as we turned up Mellington lane and finally swung
through the open white barred farm gateway, which I had insisted on preserving, and drew up before the old Rectory. Immediately there was an explosion from the house as Paddy, the Irish Setter, hurled himself upon me, almost knocking me down, then came my wife, on Nan’s arm, followed by Annie, the strong, plump little country maid, all smiles, and inquiring if there was luggage. Behind, peering from the shadow of the portico, stood Sophie, our Austrian cook, while at the corner of the barn I caught sight of Dougal, dramatically attacking the wallflower bed.

  I embraced and kissed my dear little wife, who looked remarkably well, gave a hand to Nan, and said:

  ‘Darling, here at last is Desmonde Fitzgerald.’

  She smiled. ‘ My hubsand has spoken of you so often and so nicely, I almost know you already.’

  ‘Madame.’ Desmonde bent and kissed her free hand. ‘ Your husband has spoken of you so continually and so lovingly that I am enchanted to meet you.’

  ‘Enchanted? I am no witch, Desmonde. So do keep your fine words and manners for Hollywood. Do you know of our dear Nan?’

  Rather deflated, and deservedly so, Desmonde murmured: ‘I have certainly heard of Miss Radleigh.’

  ‘Then let us go into the house. Would you like coffee? No? Then perhaps you’d rather go round the garden.’

  We went first to the old walled garden, my pride and joy, where, in the shelter of the lovely eighteenth-century rose-pink wall, Dougal had tended and brought to perfection all our early plantings. The herbaceous border was in bloom, the vegetable garden was nobly productive with lettuce, trenched celery, radish, endive, runner beans, delicious fresh peas, and Dougal’s pride, the marrow bed, bulging with green balloons which, no doubt, would shortly be reduced to a single monstrosity for the village flower show. Then came the currant bushes, red, yellow and white dangling with variegated bunches, the gooseberries, rather ravaged for a reason I suspected, but still thriving, amber globes, next the raspberries, safely caged, loaded with ripe berries, the espalier peaches with alas, few immature fruits, many nipped off by the Sussex blight, and finally the strawberry bed, a glorious huge spread of ripening Royal. Sovereigns.

  I turned to Dougal, who had quietly followed us.

  ‘Congratulations, Dougal. Everything looks wonderful, especially the strawberries.’

  ‘Ay, they’ve done fine, sir. I ken ye like them. But I’ve had a bit of a struggle keepin’ the wee laddies off them.’ He smiled. ‘I even caught Miss Radleigh putting a dainty wee finger through the net.’

  ‘She’ll be suitably chastised, Dougal. The raspberries are gorgeous too, Dougal.’

  ‘Ay, sir, they’re splendid. Ever since ye gi’en me permission to put the cage up.’

  I glanced at Nan, who was trying not to laugh.

  ‘You were right, dead right there, Dougal, and I was wrong. It’s not at all unsightly.’

  He looked pleased, and I chose this moment to say coaxingly:

  ‘Dougal, I ken how ye hate picking the fruit afore it’s ready, but could you manage to find just a few ripe strawberries for our lunch. My guest here is a very important man from Hollywood.’

  ‘I jaloused he was important, sir, frae the terrible auld claes he has on. Verra well, sir, I’ll dae my best to let ye have a nice wee punnet. And if ye’ve a moment, sir, I’d like to see ye by yoursel’ out by the barn doors.’

  ‘Certainly, Dougal. I’ll come with you now.’

  Out by the corner of the barn I gazed with rising anger at the ruin of my wallflower bed.

  ‘Damn it to hell man, who did this? Was it Paddy?’

  ‘I thought, sir, ye’d be rightly angered, as was I. No, sir, ’twas not Paddy, he’s a well trained animal. ’ Twas these two wee sons of yours, at their football. I begged them to stop, but they just laughed and wouldna’.’

  I was indeed very angry, and I wisely exaggerated my rage.

  ‘My beautiful wallflowers! I’ll let them have it, I warrant you, Dougal. They’ll play football in the far field and nowhere else, I promise you. Can you do something with the bed?’

  ‘Verra easy, sir. I’ll pick up a couple o’ dozen new shoots at the nursery and have them charged to you.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe ye’ll let me order a dozen for masel’. Like you, I love them wallflowers!’

  ‘Certainly, Dougal, I said heartily. Two dozen, if you wish.’

  ‘Na, na, sir. The ane dozen will dae fine. And don’t be too sore on the laddies. Boys will be boys, ye ken. And thank ye again.’

  I saw that he was not only appeased but pleased. I shook hands with him and saw him immediately depart for the strawberry bed. Dougal was a priceless gift from the neighbouring big estate that also supplied me with its pheasants. A trained and skilful man and a hard worker, he had come to me after a violent quarrel with the head gardener, to whom he was second in a staff of six. I valued him and made every effort to appease his rather craggy nature. He liked me because I was obviously Scottish, though masquerading under an Irish name. I felt sure now that he would stay with me. Half an hour later he handed to my wife a large punnet of delicious big ripe strawberries.

  Meanwhile, I rejoined the others, who were emerging from the path that wound through our little wood.

  ‘Why do you call it the Canon’s Walk, Alec?’

  ‘There’s a story that a previous incumbent. Canon Herbert, walked here every day reading his breviary. My neighbour’s pheasants are very fond of it. They usually find their way to our dinner table.’

  We paused in the orchard, the two ladies had gone on to the house.

  ‘Tell me, Alec, why does Miss Radleigh address you as Maister?’

  I laughed. ‘It’s a silly story. When Dougal first came to us he wanted to put a cage over the raspberries. I said “ no”. There was an argument, rather hot, which I terminated by saying in broad Scots: “Dinna’ forget, Dougal, that I’m the Maister.” Nan, who was with us, thought this very funny and has adorned me with the name ever since. Naturally, next year Dougal talked me into the cage, a great success of course. He’s a splendid fellow.’

  ‘And what a splendid girl is Miss Radleigh,’ said Desmonde wistfully.

  Lunch was ready when we reached the house. Sunlight poured into the dining-room as we sat down to one of Sophie’s Emperor omelettes and a huge bowl of gorgeous salad fresh from the garden. Afterwards came the strawberries served with fresh cream from the neighbouring farm. They were inexpressibly good. Then came coffee.

  Oddly enough, conversation did not flow easily, and now it became apparent to me that neither my wife nor my secretary was well disposed to Desmonde, a formality which he himself seemed to feel, since he became increasingly anxious to please.

  When we rose from the table he looked engagingly at Nan.

  ‘If you’re in the mood for a walk, Miss Radleigh, would you care to show me the Downs?’

  She looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘I am going to be very busy, Mr Fitzgerald. But if you walk out of our gateway, turn left, and follow your nose, you will be on the Downs in exactly two minutes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Desmonde said politely. ‘Can you spare me for an hour, Alec?’

  ‘Certainly, my dear fellow. Have a good walk, but be back before three.’

  When he had gone off alone, I said:

  ‘It’s too bad. Everyone treats him as a pariah. Why must you?’

  ‘He is not good, darling,’ my wife said. ‘There’s something wrong with him inside.’

  I looked at Nan, who said, apologetically: ‘I feel like Mum. And I can’t stand his bowing and knee bending, and hand kissing.’

  ‘That’s because he’s nervous. The poor devil has been kicked into the mud, has had his nose ground into it, is absolutely down and out. I can never forget our friendship when we were boys. I’m trying to help him make a come-back. And I hope I succeed.’

  ‘You are always so kind, dear,’ my wife said.

  ‘Nonsense! Go and lie down for an hour, then we’ll run over to Aylsford and see the boys, just
for five minutes.’

  ‘Oh, do let’s,’ she said.

  I went upstairs with Nan to my little study that overlooked the garden and the outbuildings. Dougal was hard at work on the wallflowers. All the papers requiring attention were on the desk. I looked through them quickly and signed where necessary.

  ‘Why do the Italians want four copies of every contract? I see there are a couple of less than bad early notices here.’

  ‘It’s too bad, Maister, that you’re going off again. Mum doesn’t like it. We’re very lonely here when you’re away.’

  ‘I promise I’ll be back within two weeks. Perhaps sooner, if I sell the film rights. Then you’ll have to put up with me for the next hundred years. I’m taking Mum for a quick run to Aylsford. Want to come?’

  At half past two we set out for Aylsford, a run of not more than six miles. Desmonde had just come back, looking fresh, but rather bored with the Downs. He sat in front with me. Mum and Nan were in the back. In no time at all we were gliding to the large country house converted to a school, with playing fields around, and a swimming pool at one side. Our two sons spotted us at once and rushed over from the cricket pavilion. A scratch match was in progress and they were not fielding.

  ‘Had a good innings?’ I asked.

  Robert answered: ‘Mine was short and completely uneventful.’

  ‘In other words,’ James said, ‘ he got a duck. I made twenty-seven.’

  ‘All flicked off the edge of the bat. Missed twice in the slips.’

  ‘Three jolly good boundaries and caught, at last, off a possible sixer.’

  ‘We can’t stay, boys, but I did want to see you and to tell you, if you’re out at the house before I come back, don’t, don’t, don’t mutilate the wallflower bed. If you promise not to, Nan has something nice for you.’

  Both together: ‘We promise, Dad.’

  ‘Now first come and kiss Mum and tell her that you love her; then shake hands with my friend Mr Fitzgerald who is taking me to Hollywood.’

  This was accomplished, and Nan was also kissed. She then produced the bag of gooseberries.

  ‘I say, how lovely, Nan. James, I thought we’d cleared all the bushes.’

  ‘These must be new growth, ass.’