Читать книгу High Rising - Angela Margaret Thirkell - Страница 5

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Holiday breakfasts were a ritual in which Tony and Stoker shared in equal ecstasy. As one who has been long in prison pent, Tony welcomed the extra hour which nine o’clock breakfast gave him, and the delicate inventions which Stoker, with the true cook’s worship of a hearty male appetite, laid upon his plate. When he came down on the following morning a sausage, a fried egg and a piece of fried toast, together with the remains of last night’s chips, were keeping hot for him under a cover. Of all these he rapturously partook, while expatiating to his mother on the meagre diet supplied by the housemaster’s wife. According to Tony the diet consisted of starvation alternating with poisoned food, but so long as his face was so round, and his body so obviously well-nourished, Laura paid scant attention to his complaints. Directly after breakfast, she sent him off with sandwiches to join the shooters at Low Rising, and after half an hour’s monologue from Stoker on life in its various aspects, she escaped to her room. Here, except for the occasional annoyance of having to get up and put coal on the fire, she hoped to do a long, conscientious morning’s work on the typewriter, though typing one’s own manuscript was poor fun, and she rarely did it now, except when Miss Todd was away.

But it was one of the days when the typewriter exhibits original sin in some of its more striking forms. That her own manuscript, written in pencil in threepenny exercise books, was mostly illegible, was not, as Laura in fairness admitted, the machine’s fault; but there was no other fault which it left untried. To begin with, the evil day when the ribbon must be changed had been too long deferred. To do this job, Laura put on a large overall, turned her sleeves up, and after hunting for some time in a pile of papers, produced the Instruction Book of the Harrington Portable Typewriter. Any real author, she felt, without rancour, would, after having used the same kind of typewriter for about twenty years, remember offhand how to change a ribbon, but no vestige of remembrance ever clung to Laura’s mind. The diagrams in the book were undoubtedly meant to be helpful, but they were always drawn from an angle at which you had never seen your machine, nor ever probably could, and assumed that you would remember which was Catch Point Release Lever and which Left Hand Spacer Stop—or words very much to that effect. Before you could change the ribbon you had to press Release Knob A either to the right or the left. Then you lifted the old spool from one side, manœuvred the ribbon from a small gridiron in the middle, and took off the spool on the left. By the time you had done this, and removed a little spring clip from the empty spool, not only did all your fingers and thumbs look as though you were a Bertillon fan, but the clip, with the liveliness of necessary inanimate objects, had sprung high into the air and vanished. Laura could not see it anywhere on the carpet, so with a sinking heart she gently shook the machine. A rattle inside it told her that the worst had happened, and the spring clip had gone to earth. With a hearty curse she got a screwdriver from a drawer, wearily took the machine off its stand, rescued the clip, and screwed the typewriter firmly down again. She then refreshed her memory with a glance at the instructions, pushed Release Knob A in whichever direction she had not pushed it before, without being quite sure which that was, and reversed the unthreading process with a fresh black ribbon which, being new to the work, entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of the thing, and inked her so thoroughly that her finger-prints would have been entirely choked and valueless from Scotland Yard’s point of view. For an instant she contemplated living a wider and fuller life by cleaning the type as well, but reflecting that even a small bottle of petrol in a room with a fire had been known to cause severe injuries to be sustained by people in the papers, she contented herself with picking the dirt out of the ‘e’ and the ‘a’ with a hairpin. By the time this was accomplished, and the hairpin replaced, her face was so streaked with ink, that there was nothing for it but to go to the bathroom and have a thorough wash, which meant that she had to shout to Stoker for the special soap from the garage, which again let loose the floods of Stoker’s eloquence upon her. But at last, with fingers only faintly blue-black, she sat down to work.

After typing three lines, she looked at her page, and observed that the writing had become fainter and fainter, and was now only an adumbration of itself. She groaned.

‘Of course I would,’ she said aloud. ‘I pushed the Release Knob the wrong way to start with.’

With a set face she altered the knob, wound the ribbon, which appeared to be at least a hundred yards long, from one spool to the other, pushed the knob back in the right direction and started again. Fate then relented, and after the trifling set-back of typing a whole page with the carbon the wrong way round, so that she had to re-type the sheet for her second copy, and the maddening way in which portable typewriters, however you may try to stabilise them with mats of felt or rubber, walk about all over your table like a planchette, knocking papers and inkstands on to the floor, she was able to work steadily till a late lunch.

The light was already fading as she set out to walk to Low Rising. High Rising was a pretty, unpretentious village consisting of one street, whose more imposing houses were vaguely Georgian. Laura’s house stood at the end, so that she had no more than a mile to walk to Low Rising, which was only a church, a vicarage, a farm, and a handful of cottages. The Knoxes’ house stood apart, down a turning of its own which led nowhere in particular, and behind it fields stretched away to the slopes of the hills. As Laura walked along the field-path, which followed the little river Rising, she tried to imagine the kind of person this unknown Miss Grey would be. Probably one of those over-educated young women who knew everything, and would help George Knox with dates and references. Naturally Sibyl, who had never had any education to speak of, would feel small. There was something about educated women that had that effect. As she turned out of the fields by the church, Dr. Ford came driving past, and pulled up when he saw her. They exchanged a few words and Laura asked about Mrs. Todd.

‘She has no right to go on living with that heart,’ said the doctor. ‘But Miss Todd keeps her going, and she may live till ninety, or she may drop down dead in a moment. Your Miss Todd will be glad to have you back. She’s a good girl and doesn’t have much fun.’

‘I’m afraid she doesn’t get much with me,’ said Laura seriously.

‘That’s as you look at it. Can I give you a lift?’

‘No thanks. I’m going to the Knoxes’. I expect you have come from there.’

‘Yes, getting my half-guinea under false pretences. Mr. Knox is perfectly well, but his daughter got scared and sent for me.’

‘Oh, did she? I thought it was the secretary.’

‘Quite up in our local gossip as usual. That’s my friend Stoker, I suppose.’

‘Oh, no. Sibyl came over last night, and she said the secretary was worried. But she thought it was nothing.’

‘It was certainly the secretary who rang me up, but she said Miss Knox wanted me to come. Have a look at the secretary, Mrs. Morland, she is interesting. Tony’s all right. I saw him with Sibyl, and he hadn’t blown his own head off, or anybody else’s.’

Dr. Ford drove away. It was nearly dark as Laura crossed the green and walked down the willow avenue beside the brook. It was a lonely walk, and had a slightly haunted reputation, which occasionally caused one of Mr. Knox’s maids to have hysterics and give notice. But, being local girls, their mothers usually made them take it back. At the far end stood the Knoxes’ house, lonely among the water-meadows, often surrounded by thick white mists, a little sinister, but Laura was not imaginative except in the matter of plot and incident.

The front door, ordinarily left open, was shut this evening, and Laura had to ring. It was opened by Mr. Knox’s Annie, who beamed a welcome.

‘Mr. Knox in, Annie?’

‘I think so, mum. The master’s up with Miss Grey in the study. Miss Sibyl and Master Tony are with the dogs in the yard; they’ll be here in a minute.’

Laura stepped gratefully from the chill December dusk into the sitting-room. Low Rising Manor House still looked like the farmer’s home which it had been for several hundred years, and George Knox, most annoyingly, would stick to oil lamps, which threw dark shadows among the beams of the ceiling and into the corners of the room. If George wanted to be really period, Laura had said to him, after a distracting evening with an ill-trimmed lamp, he had better have rushlights, which had the additional advantage of being less likely to set the house on fire. The living-room was long and low with windows to the ground. Above it was a similar room, where George Knox worked, looking down the willow avenue towards Low Rising. A fire was blazing in the large open fireplace, where a kettle, another of George’s trying Wardour Street ways, was swinging over the flames on a hook. She sat down by the hearth, secretly quite relieved to know that Tony was alive. Pride would never allow her to inquire, but she was always glad when the shooting expeditions were over. Presently she heard a step coming down the stairs, and a young woman opened the door.

‘You must excuse me,’ said the newcomer. ‘I believe you are Mrs. Morland. Miss Knox told me you were coming to-day. Mr. Knox is very busy, but he is coming down, just for tea.’

‘Certainly I’ll excuse you,’ said Laura, ‘though I haven’t the faintest idea what for. You are Miss Grey, of course.’

‘Has Miss Knox been telling you about me?’ asked Miss Grey.

‘Oh, yes, and Dr. Ford, and my devoted maid, Stoker. We gossip very quickly here, Miss Grey, and I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

She held out her hand, without getting up. Miss Grey hesitated, then touched it without enthusiasm and moved away to the tea-table.

I’m ashamed of myself, thought Laura for nearly being rude at sight. But I won’t be patronised by a chit in George’s house. And why should she ask if Sibyl has been talking about her? Why should she think that anyone wants to talk about her? Impertinence.

Then Sibyl and Tony burst into the room, followed by George Knox, large, loosely-framed, violent in gesture and speech, kind and timorous at heart.

‘My dear, dear Laura,’ he cried, sweeping her into a vast embrace, ‘this is divine. I must kiss you, on both sides of your face owing to my French blood. I was half asleep upstairs, desiccated in mind, ageing in body, and now here you are and everything lives again. You have met Miss Grey, who helps Sibyl to delude an old man into thinking he can still do a little work.’

‘Don’t be an ass, George,’ said Laura, upon whom George’s flights of fancy had long ceased to have any effect. ‘You’re not much older than I am, and I hope neither of us is desiccated yet. How’s the book?’

‘Getting on; getting on. And yours, my dear Laura?’

‘Mine doesn’t matter, as you very well know. It is a literary hack’s day-labour. You offend me by asking, but as you will inquire, the Mysterious Mannequin is turning out to be in de Valera’s pay, and is trying to smuggle model gowns into the Free State, to help Dublin to lead the world of fashion.’

George Knox roared with laughter. Laura glanced at Miss Grey, who was scowling into the teapot. ‘I thought so,’ said Laura to herself. ‘Irish of course. First the voice, and a very pretty one, and this finishes it. Why did nobody mention it?’

Miss Grey was certainly interesting to look at, as Dr. Ford had hinted, and attractive too. She was of middle height, with a charming figure, fair, straight, silky hair cut short like a page’s, large grey-black eyes and a delicate complexion. At the moment her rather heavy chin was sulkily sticking out and her face distorted with anger, as she made the tea in a shadowy corner, but Laura could see that she would look very pretty and very appealing, so long as she controlled herself. And the devil’s own temper, too, she thought, though she won’t let George see it, and Sibyl only suspects it. I wish Anne Todd were here.

Sibyl and Tony were too busy eating to talk much, so George had the field to himself. Miss Grey sulked privately, and Laura listened.

‘It is delightful, dear, dear Laura, to hear all about your book. We must have many talks about it, now that you are again among us. I long to hear more. We shall have a long talk and you shall tell me everything. I am having infinite trouble myself with my life of Edward the Sixth which is nearly finished. A much neglected figure, poor kinglet; personally, I mean. Think what it must have been to have such elder sisters as Mary and Elizabeth—practically aunts—and what aunts! And so many uncles! Some day I shall write a book about the Great Uncles of history. Great Uncles, I mean, of course, not great-uncles. They appear to me to have been the curse of England. From the days of Arthur—whose nephew, Mordred, by the way, had no high opinion of his uncle, et pour cause, my dear Laura, if you read your Malory carefully—to the days of Victoria, uncles have always been in the ascendant. I go no further on account of my intense loyalty. I challenge you to name more than two English kings who did not suffer the intolerable tyranny of uncles.’

‘Canute,’ said Laura promptly, ‘and Alfred, and Richard the Third.’

‘You laugh at me, Laura. Richard was, of course, so essentially an uncle himself that we cannot think of him in the capacity of nephew, but I fear you cannot claim him. As for Canute and Alfred, I used the expression English kings, of course, in its usual connotation; that is, meaning all kings who were not English, or all kings since the Conquest, at which date, as you are aware, the kings and queens of England begin. And mark me, Laura, none of the royal uncles, so far as we know, ever tipped a nephew. In fact, they would sooner put out their eyes, or smother them in the Tower, than part with the half-sovereign, rose noble, angel, call it what you will, which is the rightful perquisite of a nephew. The more I see of uncles, the better I like aunts. And you, my dear Laura, are the aunt incarnate, perfection.’

‘Well, George, I’m not, if that helps you at all. I am a mother and I hope to be a grandmother, but an aunt I cannot be. Sisters and brothers have I none, nor had my husband either, but this child’s mother,’ said she, pointing accusingly at Tony across the table, ‘is my mother’s daughter.’

Tony looked startled.

‘Can I give you some more tea, Mrs. Morland?’ said Miss Grey, who was now looking normal again.

And stop me talking, thought Laura. ‘No, thank you; it was delicious,’ she said aloud. ‘And it’s all right, Tony, Mr. Knox and I were only speaking in parables.’

‘But you’ve got it all wrong, mother. It is a man looking at his own portrait, and he says—’

‘All right, Tony,’ said Sibyl, quickly pushing a doughnut at him. ‘They were only talking nonsense. Hurry up and finish your tea.’

Laura felt she must do something civil to Miss Grey, so she inquired whether she was very busy.

‘Yes, we are—very busy. While Miss Knox was out with the shooters to-day, we put in a hard day’s work. There is very little time left before Mr. Knox’s book has to go to the printer, and every moment is precious.’

‘Couldn’t I help?’ asked Sibyl, rather timidly, but encouraged by Laura’s presence. ‘I know your typing is better than mine, but if you are very busy, I would like so much to give you and daddy a hand.’

‘What do you think, Mr. Knox?’ asked Miss Grey, not looking at Sibyl. ‘Doesn’t it seem rather a shame that Miss Knox, who loves being out of doors, should sit at the typewriter while you have a secretary?’ The words ‘and a good one’ were almost audible in her tone.

‘But it would be so good for Sibyl to practise her typing, Miss Grey,’ Laura put in kindly. ‘She will get out of practice if she never works.’

‘I feel sure Mr. Knox won’t want Miss Knox to be kept indoors working for him all day,’ was the answer.

‘You ought to get out too, Miss Grey,’ said Laura with some malice. ‘Oughtn’t she, George?’

But a scuffle between two dogs who had crept in under the table and were being fed by Tony, prevented any pronouncement from George.

‘Take those dogs out, Tony,’ said Miss Grey sharply.

Laura at once resented this order to her son. The woman had been absurdly cold and rude all teatime, and it couldn’t be tolerated. Rising majestically, she said, ignoring Miss Grey, ‘Well, George, we must go. It’s been a pleasure to see you, and tell you all about my book. Next time you must tell me about yours. How are your quarrels with Johns and Fairfield?’

‘Raging, as ever. All publishers are a race inhuman, set apart, flourishing in wickedness, but probably doomed to eternal fires.’

‘Don’t exaggerate, George. You are celebrated in the whole book world for your grasping ways. Publishers fly at the sight of you. You should be kind, and never grasping, and ask no questions, and they will eat out of your hand, like my charming Adrian Coates!’

‘Ah, woman, woman! Always at the mercy of a smooth face and a flattering tongue. If Coates eats out of your hand, it is because he finds it pays him. If he ate less, you would have more.’

‘Be quiet, George, you are disgusting. I get just as good terms from Adrian as you do from your men, without accusing him of being a Jew all the time. And as for a smooth face, I know nothing about its smoothness, and I’ll thank you to keep your tongue off a widow woman.’

Here Laura and George both broke down and laughed uproariously. Mixed emotions were struggling in Miss Grey’s face. Obviously she was puzzled by their peculiar, if not very brilliant brand of humour, and not a little shocked to see her employer making himself a motley to the view. But there was something else; perhaps curiosity. Her face softened to a charming smile. ‘Is Mr. Adrian Coates your publisher then, Mrs. Morland?’ she asked, in a soft, eager voice, quite unlike her previous tones.

‘He is that,’ responded Laura with equal suavity.

Miss Grey actually blushed, though whether at Laura’s slight assumption of a brogue, or for some other reason, Laura couldn’t be sure.

‘I have read his poems,’ was Miss Grey’s surprising statement.

‘Those must be his early ones. He hasn’t written anything since.’

‘I thought them lovely. And I have seen his photograph in a newspaper article. I think he is wonderful.’

This was most unusual. How annoyed Adrian would be, thought Laura, to have these early poems admired. He had rashly flown into print with them when he was still at Oxford, and was now not only thoroughly ashamed of them, but had ever since forsworn the Muse.

‘Well, you must meet him some time and talk about them,’ said Laura brightly. Then turning to George she said good-bye, adding, ‘I suppose you and Sibyl are going to Italy quite soon now.’

‘As a matter of fact, Italy is off,’ said George.

‘But why?’

‘It—seemed advisable,’ was all George would say. Laura, baffled, shook hands, refusing the farewell accolade, and smiled to Miss Grey, who came forward to shake hands very prettily. Sibyl came to the door with Laura and Tony.

‘I’m sorry Italy is off,’ said Laura. ‘The exchange, I suppose.’

Sibyl looked nervously around. ‘Miss Grey persuaded daddy not to go,’ she said softly. ‘She said he must get his new book planned out, and Italy would be better in May. Oh, Mrs. Morland, I don’t want to be horrid, but I think she really wanted to be sure of staying here. It’s beastly of me to mind, but I was so looking forward to Italy with daddy. I think she was afraid that when Edward the Sixth was finished he mightn’t want her any more, so she wanted him to get well into another book so that he would need her.’

‘I’m sorry about Italy, too, my dear, but keep a sense of proportion. Come and talk to me and Anne Todd if you’re worried. And I want you to come over to tea on Saturday. Adrian is coming, and I’d like you to meet him. It may be useful for you, as you are writing.’

Sibyl shuffled nervously from one foot to another, and as Laura kissed her, she felt that the child’s cheeks were burning hot. Why this embarrassment over Adrian?

‘It’s awfully good of you, Mrs. Morland, but really I’d rather not. You and Mr. Coates are sure to have heaps to talk about, and I’d be in the way.’

‘Nonsense, child. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t want you. And I don’t want your father. He breathes up too much air. Come alone. Good-bye, dear.’

As Laura and Tony disappeared into the darkness, Sibyl lingered at the door, pink-faced and terrified. She watched the light of Tony’s torch flickering down the avenue till they turned the corner. ‘Oh, I wish people wouldn’t. Oh, if only they wouldn’t,’ she sighed, and then turned and went indoors.