Читать книгу Fire in the Thatch - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 13

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“He’s a competent looking young man, Daddy.”

Anne St Cyres laughed a little as she spoke to her father just after lunch that day, and St Cyres nodded.

“Yes. Wilton gave him a very good character, and I like him myself. Business-like and shrewd, and ready to work hard—just the type of fellow to do well in the country, and he’s used to country conditions. I hope he won’t find it too lonely.”

“Well, he told you he wasn’t a sociable character, didn’t he? You can go in and have a word with him some time, you’ll soon notice if he seems hipped. I don’t think he’d have taken on a place like Little Thatch if he didn’t like being alone. Although I hardly exchanged a dozen words with him he gave me the impression that he knew his own mind all right. I’m glad he’s moved in straight away. I only heard this morning that June’s friends, the Gressinghams, have come to stay at Hinton Mallory. Mrs. Hesling’s taking them as paying guests.”

“Good gad! What’s a wealthy stockbroker going to do to amuse himself staying in a farmhouse?”

Anne linked her arm in her father’s and drew him further along the terrace.

“I suppose he’s still thinking of buying a place down here—but, as we know, there’s nothing on the market. I don’t think he’ll be successful. Anyway, I’d rather have him at Hinton Mallory than at Little Thatch.”

St Cyres nodded, but he looked troubled. “Yes... I see what you mean—but I’d rather he weren’t here at all. I don’t like the idea of town dwellers buying up country properties and using them as playthings. I know the stockbroker type... speculators, all of them, no sense of responsibility to the land. In any case, this part of England is the last locality a man like Gressingham would choose unless he had some ulterior motive in coming here.”

“His motive is obvious—he comes here because June is here. She asked him to come. You can’t blame her for wanting to see something of her own friends, Daddy. She’s wretchedly bored—”

“Why doesn’t she do something, then?” broke out St Cyres. “There was never a time in the world’s history when there was more need for men and women of goodwill to work together to justify their existence—and justify their privileges, too.”

“Yes, that’s perfectly true,” replied Anne, in her serene, sensible voice, “but it’s not easy to find a job fitted to one’s limitations when one is transplanted into a strange environment. If I were to find myself in a service flat in Mayfair, complete with central heating and a restaurant for meals, I’m perfectly certain I should feel useless and confused, and probably I should mope and grumble—and so would you! Imagine living in a single room flatlet like the one June was describing last night.”

“Heaven forbid!” exclaimed St Cyres. “Personally I’d rather perish—but no one’s forced to live in those damned rabbit hutches in London, Anne.”

“Some people adore them, Daddy. It’s no use expecting everyone to like the same things. They don’t. The evacuee business ought to have taught us that. We saw Londoners pitchforked into the country, and they loathed it. It was only the children who liked it, the grown women were bored and miserable, as June is bored and miserable, and it’s better to try to understand her point of view. I’m glad for her sake that she’s got someone she likes to talk to, although I’m sorry that I don’t like her friends. It seems mean of me, somehow.”

“Rubbish! She doesn’t like your friends, does she?—or try to be polite to them. Do you remember when old Mrs. Mansfield came that day...?”

“Shall I ever forget it?” laughed Anne. “All the same I think you’d better go and call on Mr. Gressingham, Daddy. Just stroll in some time and ask him if he’d care for some rough shooting. There are lots of wild duck up the valley.”

“Me call on Gressingham, Anne? Why on earth should I?”

“To stop people talking, dad. You know how the country gossips. If June is always running along to see the Gressinghams and we aren’t even polite to them, tongues are going to wag. It’s no use Mother going—she couldn’t bear them—but everyone knows she never goes out in winter. I’ll look in some time, just for manners—but you’ve got to do the thing properly. I may have my own private opinion about June—I’ll admit that to you—but I’m not going to have the farmers’ wives gossiping about her if I can help it. It’s not dignified and it’s unpleasant.”

“I see,” said St Cyres, and his voice sounded doleful, but he went on: “but this man Gressingham’s got his wife with him, hasn’t he? He’s not there alone?”

“She came down with him, and I gather she’s to be there on and off. She has a job of sorts—something to do with ambulance driving. It sounded to me one of those comfortable jobs where you show up if you want to—and get plenty of petrol coupons to reach your job with. She’s pretty frightful, Daddy—from our point of view. What you’d call a hundred per cent Jezebel. She wears wine-coloured slacks and a fur coat. If you go in after tea to-day you’ll miss her: she went away this morning.”

“You seem to know all about them, Anne.”

“Yes. I’m quite well-informed,” said Anne, and for once her voice sounded edgy. “I’ve heard about them from everybody: June herself, then from Mrs. Hesling who came up here to talk about the ducks—or so she pretended—then from old Dickon when he was bringing the coal in, and from Tom Ridd when he brought the potatoes in, and from the post-girl. Oh, everyone’s talking about them, Daddy. That’s why you’ve got to try to be polite.”

There was a moment’s silence, and then St Cyres said: “I don’t like it, Anne. If June’s going to import people like that here the sooner she goes back to London the better. If it’s a question of money, I could...”

“It’s not a question of money—not from my point of view,” replied Anne. “I’ve always been straight with you, Daddy, and I’ll be straight with you now. June’s bored: she married Denis because she wanted a husband to satisfy the demands of her own vitality. She’s a creature of sex, and her husband’s a prisoner of war and she’s left stranded. If we send June back to London to live her own life, I’m certain she’ll be some man’s mistress before six months are up. That’s my opinion—but I’ve good grounds for stating it. If we keep her here we can keep her straight—or try to—and look Denis in the face when he comes home.”

St Cyres was silent. Anne very seldom spoke as she was speaking now, but he trusted her judgment. At last he said: “Very well. I’ll look in at Hinton Mallory after tea.”

“Good,” she replied. “I’m sure it’s the right thing to do. Go at half-past five and I’ll come and rescue you before six.”

And with that she left him, and St Cyres chewed over his thoughts miserably as he sorted apples in the apple-house.