Читать книгу Cheerfulness Breaks In: A Barsetshire War Survey - Angela Margaret Thirkell - Страница 5

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The School Chapel really looked very nice, just as Kate had said it would, though nothing could disguise its complete hideousness. It had been built about seventy years previously by the same architect who had built Lord Pomfret’s seat, Pomfret Towers, and though the architect, hampered by the restrictions of space, had not been able to carry out his Neo-Gothic wishes to full effect, he had managed to combine inconvenience and darkness in a manner hitherto unparalleled in any of his work. The Chapel was a very long, narrow, lofty building, richly panelled in pitch-pine. The windows which were placed near the roof were of most elaborate tracery, filled with lozenges of green and purple glass. The pews, also of pitch-pine, had specially constructed seats, not only very narrow, but with a slight forward tilt that obliged the worshipper to brace himself against the encaustic tiled floor with both feet. The stalls at the east end were so profusely ornamented with carving that they constituted a kind of Little Ease for the senior boys and masters who occupied them, and were furnished with seats which folded back on a hinge at such an angle that at least two boys were able to say that their seats had fallen down with a bang of themselves at every service. The Great East Window, presented by former pupils in memory of the Rev. J. J. Damper, Headmaster from 1850 to 1868, when he retired to an honorary canonry of Barchester which he held in a state of mild imbecility for the next ten years, was one of the finest examples of the Munich school of stained glass in the country, sustaining very favourably a comparison with the glass in St. Mungo’s, Glasgow. It cast indeed, as the School Chaplain had more than once said, a dim religious light, so that the electric fittings (installed in 1902, as a memorial to Old Boys killed in the Boer War, in the finest art nouveau style) had to be used all through the year. As for the organ (now electrically controlled), the lectern, given in memory of an unpopular master who was killed in the Alps because he would not take his guide’s advice but had a rich mother (who also put up a less expensive memorial to the guide in his village church), the tiles on each side of the altar (copied from those used in the kitchen at Pomfret Towers), they are described (with five stars) in all guide books to Barsetshire, so we will say no more.

Short of burning it all to the ground, there was not much to be done, but Mrs. Birkett had put lilies and delphiniums all over the choir and up the altar steps and, greatly daring, ordered quantities of blue carpet to cover the aisle and the handsome Kidderminster rug that lay in front of the altar and vied in richness of colour with the East window.

Soon after lunch the guests began to arrive. Mr. and Mrs. Birkett naturally had an enormous number of friends and acquaintances, nearly all of whom had sent a present to Rose because they were fond of her parents, and so had to be asked. A certain number were already abroad, or dispersed in far parts of England and Scotland, but even so there were enough acceptances to make Mrs. Birkett a little anxious about accommodation in the Chapel. However, the more people are jammed together at any social function, the more they will enjoy it, so from her place of vantage in the choir stalls she was able to survey the audience without too much discomposure.

It is well known that proper weddings in a church, as distinguished from hole and corner affairs for conscience’ or convenience’ sake in what even quite well-educated people will call registry offices, are conducted entirely for the benefit of the bride’s mother and the bridesmaids. The bride, beyond a general feeling that it will be marvellous to be married, has usually been reduced by dressmakers, presents, nervous and unintelligible advice from her very ignorant mother, visits to her lover’s great-aunts, and doubts about the setting of her hair, to a state of drugged imbecility in which she would as easily be led to suttee (or sati, if you prefer it, both being probably incorrect) as to the altar; while the bridegroom is merely an adjunct or bleating victim. As for the bridegroom’s family and friends, everyone knows that they are only there by courtesy, being as naught, and relegated to the right or decani side of the church which for some ecclesiastical reason is the less honourable. And what is more, it is rare for the bridegroom’s friends to turn up in such force as the bride’s, so that the ushers are fain to hustle poor relations of the bride’s, old governesses, nannies, and obvious members of the domestic staff into the bridegroom’s side to fill up the pews, while the bridegroom and his best man have to hang about in new boots with no particular locus standi as it were.

But on the left or cantoris side, how different is the scene. All the bride’s friends have come to talk to each other, all her parents’ friends have turned up, majestic, distinguished, and except for an aunt or two, well dressed. Everyone says, ‘Where is the bride’s mother? Oh, there she is. Doesn’t she look well in that blue (or purple, or flowered silk or whatever it may be). Dear Elsie, she looks as happy as if she were going to be married herself. I suppose those are his people up in front. I don’t think I’ve met them. Taunton, isn’t it, or somewhere in Yorkshire. Look, there is Cynthia. Come into our pew, my dear, there’s heaps of room and I have something I want to tell you.’

So on this occasion did the Birketts’ party and Rose’s large body of bosom friends surge into the church and storm the pews. So did Mrs. Birkett look quite delightful in a shade of cyclamen that she had not been quite sure about and dispense welcoming smiles to anyone who caught her eye and co-opt into her pew her old friend Mrs. Morland, the well-known novelist, whose youngest boy Tony had been through Southbridge School from the bottom of the Junior School to the top of the Senior School and had just left in a cloud of glory with a Formership (corrupted from Formaship and pronounced Formayship, because scholars were supposed to apply for free tuition in forma pauperis at Paul’s College, Oxford). Mrs. Morland’s hat was too apt to lose its moorings on her head, her abundant brown hair was too apt to escape and rain hairpins on the floor, but no one could call her undistinguished, and Mrs. Birkett was very fond of her.

As for the bridegroom’s parents they were both dead, which simplified everything very much, and Philip Winter, who was doing duty as usher for Lieutenant Fairweather, saw to it that the front pews were filled with the best specimens of the bridegroom’s friends, including some very pretty young wives of Old Southbridgeians who had been at school with the Fairweathers, and the Dean’s secretary who was well known as a football player by all the younger men and so gave lustre to the scene.

The organ pealed forth, though never except in fiction does it do this, rather blaring and bursting, or in more refined cases quavering. In every heart began to spring that exquisite hope, seldom if ever realised, that the bride will have had a fit, or eloped with someone else.

Meanwhile Mr. Birkett was approaching the drawing-room, more nervous than he had ever been since he had to explain to the Dean of his College why he had frightened the wife of the President of St. Barabbas next door by stumbling against her camp bed in the garden at three o’clock on a June morning, an action formally deprecated but privately condoned by the Dean, who did not hold with married Presidents, or indeed anyone else, and most especially not with people who slept out of doors in the summer, as he himself had slept with all his windows shut for nearly seventy years, and who also defended the members of his own College against all comers, whatever the offence, and that with such venom and gusto that only the President of St. Barabbas’s fear of his wife had driven him to make the complaint. Mr. Birkett had been dismissed with an injunction not to be a young fool and the information that in his, the Dean’s, young days when undergraduates were undergraduates, the way back into College via St. Barabbas was condemned as milk-soppery and child’s play by all self-respecting men, who took the higher road by the crocketted gable end of Colney House, then but lately built for non-denominational non-collegiate students. At the present moment Mr. Birkett felt that he would rather face the Dean, or even the President of St. Barabbas’s wife, than the ordeal of escorting Rose to the Chapel, but it had to be done, so he pulled himself together and went into the drawing-room, where Octavia Crawley and Delia Brandon were practising Court curtsies, much despised by Lydia and Geraldine, while Rose made up her face.

‘It’s time, Rose,’ said Mr. Birkett, finding an odd difficulty in speaking.

‘Oh, Daddy, need I?’ said Rose, with rather impeded articulation as she applied a lipstick to her beautiful mouth.

‘Now come along, Rose,’ said Mr. Birkett helplessly. But he might have appealed in vain had not Lydia Keith taken Rose’s bag and lipstick away from her and put her bouquet into her hand. Rose was so surprised that she allowed her father to tuck her arm into his and lead her through the private passage to the anteroom, from which one door led to the choir, the other to the west end of the Chapel. Lydia and Geraldine arranged themselves behind the bride, Delia Brandon and Octavia Crawley followed, and the bridal procession began to move up the aisle towards the Dean. There was an audible gasp from the audience as Rose appeared on her father’s arm and they all turned their heads to look. Never had her exquisite figure shown to more advantage than on what Everard Carter’s House Matron described in a letter to her married sister as the Day of Days, and if her lovely face appeared to be vacant of all expression her friends were used to it. Lydia, who with Geraldine’s passive acquiescence had constituted herself chief bridesmaid, was pleased by the admiration around her, and collecting Rose’s bouquet prepared to stand by. To her old friend Noel Merton, who had driven Mrs. Crawley and a selection of the Deanery girls over from Barchester in his car, she had something of the air of a very competent second, bouquet in hand instead of a sponge, ready to give first aid between the rounds.

And indeed it looked at one moment as if her services would be required, for Rose, suddenly recognising her bridegroom, was about to say, ‘Hullo, darling, isn’t this marvellous.’ Her lips had actually parted to say the words; her father’s frown was unnoticed, and Noel Merton told Mrs. Crawley afterwards that he was certain Lydia would have garrotted Rose. But Lieutenant Fairweather, who had no illusions at all about his lovely bride, saw with his sailor’s eye what was in the wind and stepping forward one pace gave his Rose a warning look that for once silenced her completely. Mr. Birkett stood back, weak with relief; the Dean and Mr. Smith did their duty; Captain Fairweather produced the ring at exactly the right moment; and with a feeling of loss and an even deeper feeling of thankfulness Mr. and Mrs. Birkett saw their daughter and her husband kneeling together, Rose’s dress perfectly arranged, Lieutenant Fairweather, as seen in perspective, appearing to consist chiefly of the soles of his boots. For the brief moment of silent prayer Mrs. Birkett wondered if she had been a bad mother, and decided with her usual admirable common sense that she had made the best of a difficult job. Her mother’s heart was divided, one half feeling a so natural pang at the sight of her lovely daughter setting out into a new life in a distant country, far from her parents’ care, the other and by far the larger half feeling a gratitude amounting to idolatry for the son-in-law who was going to relieve her of a child that had done her best for the last five or six years to drive her parents mad.

Relations and old friends began to move towards the vestry. Lydia marshalled the bridesmaids and herded them along, stopping for a moment to exchange greetings with Noel Merton.

‘Hullo, Noel,’ she said, ‘hullo, Mrs. Crawley, come along and sign the register.’

Noel Merton said he would gladly accompany Mrs. Crawley, but didn’t think he would sign as he hardly knew the Birketts.

‘Rot,’ said Lydia. ‘You were at Northbridge with us in the summer Rose got unengaged to Philip and threw his ring into the pond. You can’t call that not knowing her. Come on.’

As there was no point in resisting, Noel followed with Mrs. Crawley as Lydia swept them into her wake.

In the vestry the register was lying ready. The Dean himself conducted the bride to the table and showed her where to sign.

‘Your full name,’ he said, ‘Rose Felicity Birkett.’

‘Not Birkett,’ said Rose, ‘Fairweather.’

‘For this last time,’ said the School Chaplain kindly, ‘you sign in your maiden name.’

‘But I can’t,’ said Rose, looking round for sympathy. ‘I mean I’ve just got married, haven’t I, and it works the minute you’re married. I mean if anyone talked to me that I didn’t know them, they’d say Mrs. Fairweather.’

The Dean and Mr. Smith, who had never been up against this particular difficulty before, looked at each other with what in anyone but a professed Christian would have been despair, when Lieutenant Fairweather, who had waited out of respect for superior officers, saw that the moment had come for the secular arm to assert itself.

‘Don’t argue, my girl,’ he said. ‘You know nothing about it. Write Rose Felicity Birkett or you won’t be married at all.’

Rose threw an adoring look at her husband, and murmuring that it was foully dispiriting and on one’s wedding day too, did as she was told and immediately recovered her spirits. The other requisite signatures were quickly affixed and a general orgy of kissing took place.

‘I’m glad it wasn’t me,’ said Lydia to her friend Noel Merton, giving him a violent hit on the arm. Noel, who in spite of being a very distinguished barrister and about fifteen years older than Lydia was always treated by her as an equal and enjoyed it, inquired whether it was the bridegroom or the ceremony that she objected to.

‘Oh, John’s all right,’ said Lydia negligently, ‘I mean all this marrying business. Do you remember, Noel, a very good conversation we had about getting married the first time you stayed with us or the second and you said you didn’t think you’d get married and I said I probably would if it was only not to be like the Pettinger.’

‘Look out, she’s just behind me,’ said Noel, casting a warning glance in the direction of the Headmistress of the Barchester High School, who was exercising the fascination of a snake over a small bird upon the Dean’s secretary, Mr. Needham.

‘Well, I’ve changed my mind,’ said Lydia, taking no notice of Noel’s warning, ‘and I think I’ll not get married. Supposing one had a daughter like Rose.’

‘I can promise you that you won’t,’ said Noel. ‘And if you do think of marrying anyone, be sure to tell me, and I’ll see if he’s nice enough for you and have proper settlements.’

Lydia said of course she would, only if Noel wanted to marry anyone he had better not tell her till afterwards, as she was sure it would be someone ghastly that she’d absolutely loathe. This compact having been made, it was time to reform the bridal procession. The organ suddenly trumpeted like an elephant and Rose on the arm of Lieutenant Fairweather, followed by her bridesmaids, passed down the aisle, between their admiring friends, out at the little door and so by the private passage back to the drawing-room where the reception was to take place.

‘Here you are,’ said Lydia firmly, as she handed Rose her bag. ‘You can stick on some more powder and lipstick if you like, but I think you’ve quite enough, don’t you, John?’

‘Don’t be so dispiriting,’ said Rose, ‘and this lipstick doesn’t come off anyway.’

‘I should think not,’ said her husband. ‘I wouldn’t let you put it on if it did. That’s enough, Lydia. Take it away.’

‘Darling John,’ said Rose, relinquishing the bag to Lydia.

And now Simnet in all his glory began to announce the guests. Rose kissed everyone with fervour and said it was too marvellous of them to have given her such a marvellous present, while Lieutenant Fairweather shook everyone’s hand in a very painful way and smiled, for there seemed to him no particular reason to say anything. Considering that it was the end of July Mrs. Birkett had collected a very good bag. Lord Pomfret, who had been for many years a Governor of the School, was unfortunately abroad, but had sent a silver rose bowl chased, as Philip Winter had said, within an inch of its life. Lord Stoke too was absent, enjoying himself very much at an Agricultural Congress in Denmark, and was represented by a mezzotint (framed). But there were several parents with titles, and some Old Boys who were distinguished in various walks of life, among them a young Cabinet Minister, two actors, a film star who had endeared himself to the public by always acting with his wife, whoever she might happen at the moment to be, an Admiral, and an Indian prince who had been in the School Eleven. Add to these a good sprinkling of dignitaries from Barchester Close, quantities of subalterns and young naval officers on the Fairweather side and enough pretty girls to go round, and it will be seen that Mrs. Birkett had cause for satisfaction. For half an hour she did her duty in receiving guests as they flowed steadily through the room, and then she felt free to do what she really wanted, which was to talk to as many of the Old Boys as possible. There was not a boy who had been in the Junior School when she and her husband were there, but liked and admired Ma Birky, and before long she had twenty or thirty young men about her, competing for her attention, so that Rose’s friends had to content themselves with the older, more distinguished, and to their minds much duller men.

It was a long time since Mrs. Birkett had had so many of her chickens under her wing at once and questions and answers flew between them, with much laughter. All the naval men and the subalterns were eager to tell her what they planned to do on their next leave, and all said much the same thing. So long, Mrs. Birkett gathered, as there wasn’t a scrap, or a blow-up, they proposed to climb, fish, tramp, bathe, shoot for every moment of daylight. If there was any sort of trouble, they said, it would be jolly hard luck on the fellows who were in India, or on the China station, or attached to Embassies, but of course nothing was likely to happen, because we had had quite enough trouble over Munich to last us for a long time and anyway Old Moore said it was going to be all right. Mrs. Birkett was sensible of a chill that she didn’t stop to analyse, told herself not to be silly, and felt that a world with so many very nice healthy young men in it couldn’t be so very wrong.

Mr. Birkett had also neglected his guests for various old Oxford friends, mostly in public life. As they too talked of their summer plans one or two said that it looked like trouble with the railway men again and how annoying it would be to be held up at Dover on one’s way back from the Continent if there were a strike.

‘Strikes are a nuisance,’ said the President of St. Barabbas, ‘but nothing to the nuisance we shall have if there did happen to be any trouble. The Government want to take over part of the College for the Divorce Court. We should have to send half our men to St. Jude’s and it will upset the work greatly, besides making us a laughing stock. And Judges expect much more comfort than we can give. They expect bathrooms!’ said the President with the just indignation of one who had lived on a flat tin bath ever since he first came up to Oxford.

‘The only man who is going to enjoy it is Crawford at Lazarus,’ said Mr. Fanshawe, the Dean of Paul’s.

‘He was my predecessor here,’ said Mr. Birkett.

‘I hate a crank,’ said Mr. Fanshawe dispassionately, ‘and Crawford cranks about Russia till most of us are thoroughly ashamed of him. He’s got a queer lot at Lazarus now, all doing Modern Greats and thinking they understand politics. He has managed to get the promise of the Institute of Ideological Interference being billeted on Lazarus, if there is any question of its leaving London. They are going to bring a lot of typists, and his men will have to go to St. Swithin’s. Do them good,’ said Mr. Fanshawe with gloomy pleasure. ‘St. Swithin’s are the hardest drinking college in Oxford just now and they’ll lead Crawford’s flock astray all right. I don’t think any of this is likely to happen, but I must say I rather hope there will be some evacuating from London, just to serve Crawford right. Never ought to have got the Mastership. Ha!’

‘You should hear my butler, Simnet, on Crawford,’ said Mr. Birkett. ‘He was a Scout at Lazarus but resigned because he didn’t hold with the Master’s political and social views.’

As he spoke Simnet suddenly materialised at his side and murmured, ‘Mrs. Birkett says The Cake, sir.’

‘You were on No. 7 staircase at Lazarus, weren’t you?’ said Mr. Fanshawe, whose knowledge and memory of Oxford characters were unique. ‘I’ll have a word with you later.’

The guests were then swept into the dining-room where Lieutenant Fairweather and Rose were standing by the cake. Mr. Tozer was plying the champagne nippers with demoniac fury, his satellites, reinforced by the Headmaster’s staff and some of the servants from the Houses, were already speeding about the room with trays of glasses. Simnet corralling by the power of his eye the most distinguished of the guests, served them himself. A photographer from the Barchester Chronicle suddenly elbowed his way to the front. Lieutenant Fairweather drew his sword, and offered the hilt to Rose. The flashlight went off. Rose, her hand guided by her husband, gave a loud shriek and cut into the cake. The photographer disappeared. Mr. Tozer then fell upon the cake with a kind of caterer’s hacksaw and dismembered it with the rapidity of lightning. Healths were drunk, Simnet produced unending supplies of champagne for Mr. Tozer, and Mrs. Birkett suddenly wished it were all over.

‘How are you bearing up, Amy?’ said Mrs. Morland at her elbow.

Mrs. Birkett said as well as could be expected, and she must get Rose away to change soon.

A young man in rather disreputable clothes approached Mrs. Birkett with a glass of champagne.

‘You ought to drink this,’ he said gravely, offering it to Mrs. Birkett. ‘It will do you good.’

‘Tony!’ Mrs. Birkett exclaimed, suddenly recognising Mrs. Morland’s youngest son.

‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ said his mother.

‘I wasn’t,’ said Tony, ‘because I was mending my bike, but as I got it mended I thought I’d come, but the pedal came off at the level crossing so I left it at a shop to be mended.’

‘Let me know if you’d like me to fetch you and the bicycle from anywhere on my way back, darling,’ said Mrs. Morland.

‘It would be too complicated,’ said Tony. ‘If I had a car of my own, Mamma, it would save you a lot of trouble.’

‘And give me a lot of trouble,’ said Mrs. Morland with some spirit. ‘Well, good-bye, darling. It was so nice to see you.’

Tony, divining that his mother might kiss him, sketched a salute to the two ladies and with gentle determination forced his way to the thickest of the crush where Lieutenant and Mrs. Fairweather and the bridesmaids were to be found.

‘Many happy returns of the day,’ he said politely to Rose. ‘Hullo, John. Hullo, Geoff. Hullo, Geraldine. Hullo, Lydia.’

‘Come and stay with us when you’re out of camp,’ Lydia yelled above the tumult.

‘Can’t,’ said Tony. ‘My Mamma will take me abroad.’

‘There’ll be a railway strike and you’ll never get home,’ shouted Lydia. ‘I heard someone say so.’

‘It all comes of listening to the wireless,’ said Tony. ‘You ought to learn to think for yourself.’ And before Lydia could counter this accusation he had slipped away.

Mrs. Birkett now approached her married daughter and said it was time to change. Rose, who was vastly enjoying a flirtation with all her husband’s and her brother-in-law’s friends, said in rather a whining voice Need she really?

‘Indeed you need, my girl,’ said her husband, looking at his wrist-watch. ‘Half an hour. At half-past four, you’ll find me clean and sober at the front door, so get up steam.’

‘All right, angel,’ said Rose and followed her mother from the room.

Lieutenant Fairweather, accompanied by a large body of select friends, went to Mr. Birkett’s dressing-room to change his uniform and the crowd began to disperse. Mr. Birkett, who was acting host while his wife was with Rose, stood and shook hands with his guests. He was tired and felt as if he were somehow apart from the scene, and as if for a hundred years people had shaken his hand and said they would be seeing him when term began again unless anything happened, though of course it wouldn’t.

Presently only the near friends of the two families and some uninteresting relations were left and then Lieutenant Fairweather came down with his bodyguard. Captain Fairweather put the bridegroom’s suitcase into his car, which was already loaded with Rose’s luggage. Simnet brought more champagne into the hall where the remains of the party were now waiting for the bride. The school clock chimed two quarters. Lieutenant Fairweather went to the bottom of the stairs and shouted ‘Rose!’

Even as he spoke his wife came downstairs in a ravishing silk coat and skirt, clasping the two depraved dolls in one arm and the plush panda in the other.

‘Here, Geraldine,’ said Lieutenant Fairweather, ‘take those dolls.’

‘Oh, John——’ Rose began.

‘And give me that other thing,’ said her bridegroom, laying hands on the panda.

‘John, don’t be so dispiriting,’ said Rose.

‘What on earth have you got inside him?’ asked Lieutenant Fairweather, and without waiting for an answer he unzipped the panda’s back and the ocarina fell out.

‘You might take that coco-nut thing away,’ said Lieutenant Fairweather to Simnet, who was in deep converse with Mr. Fanshawe. Simnet was so surprised that he stooped and picked it up.

‘Catch!’ continued the Lieutenant, tossing the panda to Lydia. ‘And now say good-bye, Rose.’

He then embraced his mother-in-law very kindly, kissed all the bridesmaids and shook hands with his father-in-law.

‘Don’t you worry,’ he said. ‘I’m going to look after Rose with all my might and all my heart. Thank you all. Bless you all. Come along, Rose.’

Rose hugged her parents tempestuously, and kissed everyone in a careless way. Mrs. Birkett, who could hardly bear it now that the moment of parting had come, saw that Rose’s lovely eyes were brimming.

‘John!’ she said, laying her hand on her son-in-law’s arm and looking towards Rose.

‘It’s absolutely all right,’ said he very kindly. ‘Anything wrong, Rose?’

‘No,’ said Rose, bursting into tears. ‘It’s only because of leaving Mummy and Daddy, but I do love you better than anything in the WORLD, darling.’

In proof of which she flung herself sobbing into her husband’s arms.

‘That’s absolutely all right,’ said he, patting her back. ‘And now we’d better go.’

He took Rose’s arm. Her tears ceased as if by magic, leaving her face unravaged. On the bottom step she suddenly turned and ran back to her mother.

‘Mummy, did they put my little blue suitcase with my bathing things in the car,’ she asked earnestly, ‘because we’re going to bathe to-morrow if there’s time.’

Geraldine said it was all right. Rose ran down the steps again and got into the car. With a frightful noise it leapt forward and the married couple whirled away down the drive. The younger guests who had been making up parties for cinemas or dancing went off, taking Delia Brandon and Octavia Crawley with them. Mr. Fanshawe said he had much enjoyed his talk with Simnet and had got the low-down on Crawford, and would now walk to Southbridge station and take the next train that came, which he found more restful than being driven by his wife.

‘Come and sit down, Amy,’ said Mrs. Morland, who was staying to dinner. ‘You look tired.’

‘I am,’ said Mrs. Birkett. ‘Oh, must you go, Dr. Crawley? It has been so good of you to come. I think Rose will be very happy.’

‘I couldn’t help hearing her last words to you,’ said the Dean. ‘They reminded me so curiously of a story my grandfather used to tell about the late Lady Hartletop. It was when she married Lord Dumbello, before he succeeded to the Marquisate. They are a kind of connection of ours, you know. My Aunt Grace married Major Grantly who was Lady Hartletop’s brother.’

‘But it was a moiré antique she wanted, wasn’t it,’ said Mrs. Morland, ‘not a bathing dress.’

The Dean laughed and said good-bye.

Dinner was very quiet. As Geraldine had gone back with Lydia to dine at the Carters’, taking with her Captain Fairweather who wanted to see Bobbie Carter in his bath before going back to camp, only the Birketts and Mrs. Morland were there to eat the crumbs of the wedding feast. Mr. Tozer had cleared away with his usual thoroughness and the dining-room was quite habitable again. Simnet with great tact had put away the unopened champagne, feeling that it would remind his employers too vividly of their loss and had, without waiting for orders, brought up a very good claret under whose soothing influence everyone relaxed. Mrs. Morland spoke of her plans for going to France with Tony unless anything happened.

‘Everyone has said that to-day,’ said Mrs. Birkett wearily. ‘Oh, Henry, who was Gristle that rang you up this morning? I’ve been meaning to ask you all day.’

‘Gristle?’ said the Headmaster. ‘Not Gristle; Bissell. He is the Headmaster of the Hosiers’ Boys Foundation School. If there is any evacuating of the London schools,’ he continued, addressing himself to Mrs. Morland, ‘we are taking them in, damn them. I’m sorry; the day has been trying. But it will be a difficult job with the best will in the world. If anything did happen, not that I think it will, but one must be prepared, a good many of our younger masters will have to go automatically. So will my secretary.’

Mrs. Morland did not stay late. Before she went she said to Mrs. Birkett:

‘I was wanting to ask you, Amy. If there is any trouble, which I shall not encourage by talking about it, my publisher Adrian Coates and his wife, George Knox’s daughter, you know, rather want to take my house. I don’t suppose there’ll be any air raids, but if there were Adrian wants Sybil and the three children to be in the country. Tony will be at Oxford, so I wondered if it would be any use to you if I came to you for a bit, as a secretary, or a P.G., or anything you like. But only if you’d like it. Think about it.’

‘I shan’t think at all,’ said Mrs. Birkett, ‘I’d love to have you. You can P.G. if you’d feel happier and have Rose’s room to write in. Bill, wouldn’t it be nice if Laura came to us in the autumn if things get difficult?’

‘Very nice indeed,’ said Mr. Birkett warmly. ‘And there isn’t another parent, past, present, or future, that I’d say that to. Do come, Laura.’

Mrs. Morland stared into vacancy and took a deep breath.

‘I am not superstitious,’ she said firmly, ‘and though I don’t believe in encouraging things by talking about them, it is silly not to face facts. If there is a war, I will come to you. There!’

‘I always said you saw things clearly,’ said Mrs. Birkett. ‘You can tell the truth better than anyone I know. If there is a war, come to us.’

‘And now let it do its worst,’ said Mrs. Morland heroically but irrelevantly, and so took herself away.

‘I still don’t think it can happen,’ said Mrs. Birkett to her husband, ‘but I’m glad Rose will be safely away.’

‘I don’t believe it either,’ said Mr. Birkett, ‘for to admit it would be to admit the possibility of the Hosiers’ Boys coming here, which will undoubtedly be worse than death. I think John will look after her.’