Читать книгу Wild Strawberries - Angela Margaret Thirkell - Страница 5

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Rushwater House was a large, rather Gothic house built by Mr. Leslie’s grandfather. Its only outward merit was that it might have been worse than it was. Its inner merits were a certain comfortable spaciousness and a wide corridor running the whole length of the top story, where children could be kept out of sight and hearing, and rampage to their hearts’ content. All the main rooms opened on to a gravelled terrace from which one descended to gardens bounded by a little stream and bordered by woods and fields.

Gudgeon, the butler, was giving the finishing touches to the lunch-table when a short, middle-aged woman in a dark-grey striped dress came in.

“Good morning, Mr. Gudgeon,” she said, with a foreign accent. “ ’Er ladyship’s bag as usual.”

“Mr. Leslie was carrying a bag when they returned from church, Miss Conk,” said Mr. Gudgeon. “It is probably on the library table. Walter, see if her ladyship’s bag is in the library.”

The footman went on his errand. Mr. Gudgeon continued his supererogatory finishing touches while Miss Conk looked out of the window. Lady Emily’s maid had come to her many years ago as Amélie Conque, but the assimilative genius of the English language, Mr. Leslie’s determination not to truckle to foreigners in the matter of pronunciation, and Mr. Gudgeon’s deep-rooted conviction of the purity of his own French accent had all united to form the name Conk. By this name she had been known with terror and dislike by Lady Emily’s children, with love and disrespect by her grandchildren. Whether Conk had softened with years or the new generation were more confident than the old, we cannot say. Probably both.

Conk had, as far as was known, no home, no relations, no interests beyond Rushwater and the family. For her holiday she always went to a retired housekeeper of the Leslies’, an ill-tempered old lady called Mrs. Baker who lived at Folkestone. Hence it was her habit, after her annual quarrel with Mrs. Baker, to make a day excursion to Boulogne, from which glimpse of her native land she always returned in tears because she had been so homesick for England.

Walter returned with the bag, which he attempted to give to Conk. Conk, ignoring his very existence, waited with an air of spiritual suffering till Gudgeon took it from Walter’s hand and gave it to her.

“We shall be late for lunch,” said Conk, who was apt to use the royal and editorial “we” in speaking of her mistress.

“That’s nothing new, is it, Mr. Gudgeon?” said Walter, as Conk left the room.

Gudgeon gave Walter a look which made him retreat hastily to the service-room, and rearranged everything which Walter had happened to touch. Then he went to sound the gong.

To sound the gong was, though he would have died rather than confess it, one of the great joys of Gudgeon’s life. The soul of the artist, the poet, the soldier, the explorer, the mystic, which slumbered somewhere inside his tall and dignified presence, was released four times a day to empyrean heights unknown and unsuspected by his employers, his equals—these being but two, Cook and Mrs. Siddon, the present housekeeper—and his underlings. There had been a black time the previous autumn when Mr. Leslie, solicitous for his wife’s nerves after a long illness, had ordered Gudgeon to announce meals by word of mouth. Only his devotion to his mistress had sustained him under this trial. It was no pleasure to him to enter the drawing-room, bringing with him a presence which put the most distinguished guests to shame; no pleasure to him to announce in the voice which might have led him, except for a slight uncertainty in the matter of initial aspirates, to the highest preferment the Church can bestow, that dinner was served. His inner being was mute and starved. One day, in the course of a conversation with Conk, he threw out a feeler, suggesting that her ladyship had been a little less punctual for meals since Mr. Leslie had abolished the use of the gong.

“ ’Er ladyship is just ze same,” said Conk. “She never ’ear ze gong. If she was in ’er bedroom she often say to me, ‘Conque, ’as ze gong gone?’ ”

Gudgeon pondered these remarks. One day he ventured to sound the gong, gently and for a short space, for lunch. After a day or two, finding that no one checked him, he sounded it for tea, then for dinner, but always with brevity and restraint. Finally, taking advantage of the absence of Mr. Leslie in town, he liberated his soul in tocsins, alarms, fanfares of booming sound. At the end of the week when Mr. Leslie returned, Lady Emily remarked at dinner:

“Gudgeon, did you sound the gong to-night? I never heard it.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Gudgeon, “but I can sound it a little longer in future if your ladyship wishes.”

“Yes, do,” said Lady Emily.

Mr. Leslie, occupied with Mr. Macpherson about the matter of mending the cricket pavilion roof, did not hear this conversation, and being at the time absorbed in a cattle show at which Rushwater Robert was like to do well, he never noticed that the gong had begun again.

To see Gudgeon sounding the gong for dinner was to see an artist at work. Taking the gong-stick, its round end well padded with wash-leather, which it was his pride to replace with his own hands from time to time, he would execute one or two preliminary flourishes in the manner of a drum-major, or a lion lashing itself to a frenzy with the fabled claw in its tail. Then he let the padded end fall upon the exact centre of the gong, drawing out a low ringing note. With increasing force he sounded it, the end of his stick moving in ever-widening circles upon the dark, pitted surface of the gong, till the sound filled the whole house, booming through corridors, vibrating in every beam, thrilling and pleasantly alarming Agnes’s children in bed upstairs, making David in his bath say, “Damn that gong; I thought I had five minutes more,” making Mr. Leslie, in the drawing-room, say, “Everybody late again as usual, I suppose,” making Lady Emily say as Conk pinned up her hair, “Has the gong gone yet, Conque?”

To-day the last ripples of its booming had hardly died away when Mr. Leslie came in with Mr. Macpherson, the agent, and Mr. Banister. Agnes, with James, who came down to Sunday lunch, David and Martin followed close behind.

“We shan’t wait, Gudgeon,” said Mr. Leslie. “Her ladyship will be late.”

“Very good, sir,” said Gudgeon pityingly. There was very little about the family that Gudgeon did not know before they knew it themselves.

“When are you expecting your niece, Mrs. Graham?” asked Mr. Macpherson.

“To-morrow for lunch. She was seeing her mother off to-day.”

“Let me see,” said Mr. Macpherson, who prided himself upon knowing every ramification of the Leslie family, “she will be the daughter of Colonel Graham’s eldest sister, I’m thinking, the one that married Colonel Preston that was killed in the War.”

“Yes, that’s it. My eldest brother was in his regiment, you remember, as a subaltern. They were killed about the same time, poor darlings. Mrs. Preston has never been very well since then.”

“I mind it now,” said Mr. Macpherson, “and there was but the one child, this Miss Mary. I saw her the once, here, when she was only a lassie.”

“She is such a darling, we all adore her. It is so sad for her that her mother has to go abroad, so mother and I thought she had better come here for the summer.”

“What does Mrs. Preston want to go abroad for?” asked Mr. Leslie.

“I think her doctor wanted her to, father,” said Agnes.

“Doctors!” said Mr. Leslie, wiping the whole of the Royal College of Physicians off the face of the world with this withering remark.

“And when do you expect your husband back, Mrs. Graham?” continued Mr. Macpherson, bent on bringing his family knowledge up-to-date.

“I don’t quite know. It is so annoying,” said Agnes in a gently plaintive voice. “The War Office said three months, but you never know. And it really takes quite some time to get back from South America, you know. But what is very nice is that he has seen father’s bull out there.”

“Not Rushwater Robert?” asked Mr. Macpherson.

“Yes, he was champion at Buenos Aires and Robert, I mean my Robert, not the bull, saw Robert at the show. But he didn’t know him.”

“Then how did he know it was Robert?” asked Mr. Leslie.

“He didn’t, father, that was the sad part. Darling Robert looked at him with his lovely great eyes, but he had forgotten him. And when you think that he was called after him!”

Agnes sighed comfortably.

“There was something to be said for the Romans having more than one kind of personal pronoun,” said John, to no one in particular. Mr. Leslie grappled mentally with the difference between his prize bull and his son-in-law, but Agnes’s next remark drove it out of his head.

“Can Weston meet Mary to-morrow, father?” she asked.

“Meet who? Oh, Mary; yes, of course, Mary Preston. Bless me, I remember her mother quite well at your wedding, Agnes. Why does she take any notice of the doctors? Why doesn’t she come here? She might take the vicarage, Banister, if you really want to let it.”

“But my dear Leslie, I have already let the vicarage, as I told Lady Emily last week.”

At this moment Lady Emily came in with her head mobled in fine lace and a large silk shawl clutched round her.

“What did you tell me last week, Mr. Banister?” she asked as she arranged herself in her chair. “Gudgeon, take my stick and put it there; no, just there in the corner. And have I got a footstool? Yes, here it is; I can feel it with my foot. Was it about your tenants, Vicar? I know you did tell me something about them and I must call on them, only I can’t go till Tuesday, because Sunday is Sunday, and then,” she continued with the air of one who has brought to birth a profound thought, “Monday is Monday, and, Henry, we must see about having Mary Preston met at the station. Do you remember her father, Colonel Preston, Mr. Macpherson? He was here once before the War. Well, about your tenants, Mr. Banister, Tuesday is Tuesday, and then I hope to be able to go. What is that?” she inquired of Walter, who was handing her a dish.

“Eggs in mushroom sauce, my lady.”

“Oh, I see, you have all got on to the second course. No, not egg. Give me some—what is it you are all having? Chicken? Give me some chicken. Mr. Macpherson, I was thinking in church this morning about the cricket pavilion roof, but Henry tells me you mended it last October. Oh, Walter, that is too much chicken. I’ll put some on the vicar’s salad plate as he has finished his salad, and then you can bring back the eggs and I’ll have some of everything all together. Do you think Tuesday will do?”

“My tenants,” said Mr. Banister, who had been vainly endeavouring to get a word in, “don’t come till August, Lady Emily, but if you will be kind enough to call upon them when they do come, it will be very good of you.”

“Oh, August,” said Lady Emily, rather dashed. “Then I had better not call on them on Tuesday. Henry,” she called to her husband at the other end of the table, “who do you think I have had a letter from?”

“Can’t say, my dear.”

“Wait a minute, I had it somewhere,” said Lady Emily, turning out the contents of a large bag on the table. “No, it isn’t here. Gudgeon, tell Walter to ask Conque for a large flat basket in my bedroom with some letters in it. Not the small round basket with the green edge, because that has only answered letters in it. I can’t think why I keep answered letters,” she said to the company generally, flashing a self-deprecating look on them, “but some day I must really go through them and burn some. David, you shall help me and we will have great fun reading them before we burn them. But it is not that basket, Gudgeon, but the other basket which has my painting things and a dead thrush in it. Martin, did I tell you I found a dead thrush on my window-sill this morning, and I don’t know what to do with it?”

“Oh, the poor darling,” said Agnes.

“Can I have it for a funeral?” asked James, raising his head from his chocolate pudding.

“Yes, darling, of course. Well, then, Gudgeon, I want the dead thrush and a letter with a coronet on the back of it. And who are your tenants, Mr. Banister?” said her ladyship, who however far she divagated always returned to her subject in the long run.

“Very delightful people. I am sure you will like them. I met them in Touraine last year, where I went to see my old friend, Somers, who keeps a coaching establishment.”

“Will he bring Mrs. Somers too?” asked Lady Emily, who had minced her chicken up into small pieces and was eating it and tepid egg with a spoon, with apparent relish.

“No, it isn’t Somers who is taking the vicarage. It is some friends of Somers’s called Boulle.”

“Funny thing,” said Mr. Leslie, “I have never met anyone called Bull in France. Plenty of people called Bull in England, of course.”

“Not Bull, Leslie, Boulle. They are French.”

“Like something out of the Wallace Collection, father,” said David helpfully.

“Good name for your young champion,” said John. “Rushwater Boulle.”

“First time I ever heard Bull was a French name,” said Mr. Leslie, sticking manfully to his guns.

“I believe the family is Alsatian,” said Mr. Banister.

“You might make a joke about Alsatians and Boulle-dogs,” said Martin.

“No, you mightn’t,” said David.

Here Gudgeon came back with a silver tray on which were the dead thrush and a letter.

“Oh, thanks,” said Lady Emily. “Gudgeon, put the poor bird in a box and Master James can have it as soon as he has finished lunch.”

“Can I get down now?” said James, rapidly spooning the last of his second helping into his mouth. Permission being given, he pushed his chair back, took possession of the corpse, and left the room.

“Has anyone seen my spectacles?” inquired Lady Emily. “Gudgeon, tell Conque I want some spectacles and I must manage somehow till she finds them.”

“Let me read the letter for you, mother,” said David, coming round and pulling a chair between his mother and Mr. Macpherson. “It’s from a person called Holt, Yours sincerely C. W. Holt. He wants to come to lunch to-morrow and see the garden, and he is staying with Lord Capes at Capes Castle, and he wants you to send the car to fetch him as Lord Capes’s is not available. He seems to have considerable aplomb, mamma, whoever he is.”

“Well, he’s really a very nice little man,” began Lady Emily, but Mr. Leslie interrupted her.

“He’s an infernal bore, Emily. Last time he came here he invited himself for a night and stayed for three, and treated the car as if it were his own. He talks about nothing but gardens and his titled friends. I can’t stand the fellow, no more can anyone else. He invites himself to people’s houses and they are too good-natured to say they don’t want him. I shouldn’t wonder if he is keeping a diary about us all and means to publish it when he is dead, like that Weevle fellow or whatever his name was.”

“Creevey,” said David.

“Greville,” said Mr. Banister at the same moment.

“Jobling,” said John, under his breath, for his own satisfaction.

“I said Weevle,” said Mr. Leslie angrily. “Emily, must you have him?”

“Not if you’d rather not, Henry. Thanks, Gudgeon. Oh, it’s the wrong pair, but I dare say I can manage. You see, he says Lord Capes is going to town and he will be all alone, and as he is going on to the Nortons we are really on his way, and I can’t help feeling sorry for him.”

“Well, mamma,” said David, “the Nortons are thirty miles away on the other side of the county, but I dare say in the eye of the Almighty—sorry, Mr. Banister—it’s the same thing.”

“Look here, Emily,” said the exasperated Mr. Leslie, “the car can’t fetch Holt from Lord Capes and meet the train for Mary Preston, that’s all.”

“But, Henry, if Weston went early to fetch Mr. Holt, and got him here about twelve, he would have plenty of time to go on and meet Mary. She is coming to Southbridge because there aren’t any good trains to Rushwater on Whit Monday.”

“Gran,” said Martin, “couldn’t I take the Ford over to Southbridge?”

“Certainly not,” said his grandfather.

“But I could run the Ford over, father,” said David, “and Martin can come with me. So that’s all right.”

“Then, Gudgeon,” said her ladyship, “tell Weston he will be wanted to-morrow to fetch Mr. Holt from Lord Capes’s in time for lunch. I suppose he had better leave here about eleven o’clock, at least, I don’t really know how long it takes to get there, because last time we went, you remember, Martin, we were coming from London, so of course it took several hours, but I dare say Weston knows. And then, David, you and Martin had better leave with the Ford at—— Oh, what times does Mary’s train get there, Agnes?”

“Gudgeon will see about it, mamma,” said Agnes. “He always knows everything. Let’s come in the drawing-room now, because the children will be coming down for their afternoon walk.”

“Oh, but one moment,” said Lady Emily, rewinding her shawl round her. “My stick, Gudgeon. What about Mr. Banister’s tenants? Am I to call on Madame Boulle this week. And is she a widow?”

“My dear Lady Emily, I don’t know what I can have said to lead you to think that she is a widow——” began the vicar.

“Frenchwomen are all widows,” said Mr. Leslie. “Look at them.”

“But Alsatians are different,” added David, with great presence of mind.

“No, no, she has a husband and two or three young people. They are in some way connected with a French university. In fact, both M. Boulle and his eldest son are, I believe, professors. They just want a month’s holiday in England. They take in paying-guests in France, young men and women who want to study French for business, or for a degree. Delightful and cultivated people.”

“I shall certainly call on them,” said Lady Emily, “but not before Tuesday. Now we must go and see James’s funeral.”

The vicar excused himself on the grounds of a children’s service. Mr. Leslie and his agent went off to look at the young bull, while the rest of the party rejoiced James’s heart by following the thrush to its wormy home.