Читать книгу Fire in the Thatch - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 14

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Hinton Mallory was one of the largest farmhouses in the district. One of Colonel St Cyres’ friends who had stayed with him recently had said: “If Mallory Fitzjohn were on a bus route or near a station you’d have become a show place, Colonel. I haven’t seen a finer group of houses in the county.”

“Thank God we’re not on a bus route then, and that our roads will never tempt the motoring week-enders,” St Cyres had replied.

“The Mallorys”—as the group was described locally—consisted of three big houses with attendant cottages. Manor Thatch—the St Cyres’ home—was the “great house” of the group: attached to it was Little Thatch and three small labourers’ cottages. A few hundred yards from Manor Thatch was the Old Vicarage, now used as a farmhouse, with Church Cottages near by. Manor Thatch with its attendant cottages, the Church and Vicarage Farm made up Mallory Fitzjohn. Hinton Mallory was in the valley below, and Upton Mallory lay across the river.

Hinton Mallory was an unusually beautiful old house which consisted of the remains of monastic buildings coupled to a Jacobean wing. With its great stone chimneys, medieval open fireplaces and panelled walls, Hinton Mallory was finer than many a manor house. Seen from the hills, the thatched roofs and spreading stone barns made a beautiful group, embowered in the tall elms and ancient oaks which luxuriated in the rich valley soil. The approach to the farm was disillusioning to the urban mind, for the lanes, deep set between high banks and dense hedgerows, were generally thick with mud and farmyard squelch, and no view was obtainable by either driver or pedestrian, for banks and hedges shut the lanes in completely. For six months of the year it was desirable to wear Wellingtons when approaching Hinton Mallory: ordinary shoes were liable to be pulled off the feet when they adhered to the red glutinous mud; the river frequently broke its banks after rainstorms, and the unwary had to paddle through the flooded stretches.

Some of these disadvantages were being expounded to Tom Gressingham by a friend who had driven over to see him at Hinton Mallory. Gressingham was a man of fifty, but he looked younger than his years. His admirers said he was a fine looking fellow, and he was, in fact, a big upstanding figure of a man, but beginning to lose in his fight against obesity. His hair was still black and plentiful, well cut, well brushed: his complexion sanguine, tending to excess of colour now, his eyes very dark but somewhat lack-lustre. When Anne St Cyres first saw Gressingham she remembered Browning’s famous lines in the Pied Piper:

“Nor brighter was his eye nor moister

Than a too long opened oyster.”

Gressingham’s visitor, Howard Brendon, was a great contrast to him in appearance—a long, lean, grey man, narrow headed, narrow faced, tight-lipped and colourless: a ferret of a man, but well groomed, well tailored, immaculately clean, and dressed in tweeds which were not only meant for the country but looked right in the country—which Gressingham’s tweeds never did. Brendon accepted the whisky and soda which Gressingham held out to him and said:

“I agree with you it’s a fine house and an interesting house—if you happen to value antiquities—but you’d make the mistake of a lifetime if you bought it. However, as it’s not on the market, and not likely to be, the point’s not worth debating.”

Gressingham laughed, and his laugh was that of a well-satisfied man. “I’ve heard that before, old chap, many times before. As you know, I’ve made quite a hobby of buying old properties, spending a bit on them and selling them again to advantage—my own advantage as well as the other fellow’s. You’d be surprised the number of times I’ve met with the ‘won’t sell at any figure’ attitude, and found that a little persuasion and a little time worked wonders. I’m not boasting when I tell you that I’ve hardly ever come to a dead-end that way.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” replied the other, “but you might as well face the facts this time. This place is owned by Colonel St Cyres. He’s as likely to sell his land as to commit perjury in a Court of Law. I don’t know if the analogy enlightens you, but it’s as strong as I can make it.”

“Right. He won’t consider selling now. He’s no need to. Farming’s done well during the war, but it’s not going to do so well in future. The government’s handed out a lot of soft sawder to the farmers—quite right, too—but in peace time cheap food’s what’s wanted, and it’s cheaper to import meat and grain than to raise it in this country. In five years’ time quite a number of land-owning gentry will be glad to realise a good figure for their property.”

“In five years’ time the sale of land will be controlled. What you refuse to realise is that this country’s going to swing to the left, and the hell of a long way, too.”

At that moment the door opened and Mrs. Hesling announced: “Here’s Colonel St Cyres come to see you,” and she ushered the latter in without further ceremony.

If Gressingham were taken aback he did not show it. Advancing with outstretched hand he said cheerfully: “Delighted to see you, sir. Very good of you to come over. May I introduce my friend, Howard Brendon? He’s come over from Dulverton to look me up—a very friendly thing to do in these days of transport difficulties.”

Gressingham was not an unobservant man: he was a very good amateur actor and based his performances on a habit of noting other men’s foibles. St Cyres bowed to Brendon, and the bow was returned with the same reserve. “Looking at each other as though they were nasty smells—priceless,” observed Gressingham to himself. Aloud he said, “A whisky and soda, sir, or gin and bitters?”

“Thanks. Not for me, Mr. Gressingham,” replied St Cyres. “My daughter-in-law tells me you’re enjoying staying here. I’m afraid you must find the place somewhat primitive.”

“Oh, a bit of that doesn’t hurt me,” replied Gressingham cheerfully. “If you ask me, we tend to be over-civilised these days—mawkish—depending too much on machine products. Does a man good to get back to the earth occasionally and learn that life isn’t all refinement. Nothing nice-minded about me, Colonel. Then there’s this to it: you country folk don’t understand what rationing means. In this place there’s butter and cream and milk, good poultry and eggs, home cured ham and good pork. You farmers live, by jove! If the food they give me here is what you call primitive, give me the primitive every time!”

Gressingham’s laugh rang out, cheerful and unforced, as he went and refilled his glass. “Did you smell my dinner cooking as you came in, Colonel? Smelt like privation—what? It’s four years since I had a holiday, and by the lord I’ve earned it and I’ve enjoyed it.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” replied St Cyres courteously. “I’ve always been told that Mrs. Hesling makes her guests very comfortable, but I shouldn’t like you to run away with the idea that country folk get more than their fair share of rations. Farming is hard physical work, and it can’t be done without adequate victuals.”

Gressingham laughed: a noisy, cheerful laugh as he replied,

“Don’t imagine I’m casting aspersions or suggesting any unfairness, Colonel. I know a bit about country life, and I agree with you that a man who is using his muscles from morning to night needs extra calories to stoke up his energy. All I meant was that I appreciate my good fortune in being here. I think the war has taught us a lot—all of us—and one thing it has taught the city worker is that the country can offer more amenities than was previously believed. Take the spate of country books issued during the war—the demand for them exceeds the supply, because the town-dweller thinks he’s made a mistake in not trying to understand and enjoy the country. I’m an example: I’m London born and bred, and yet I’ve an itch to get a country property and to farm a bit on my own account.”

Howard Brendon gave a dry chuckle: “Well, you’ve got money to burn, and it’s nobody’s business how you burn it, Gressingham, but Colonel St Cyres will bear me out when I say that a London financier is asking for trouble if he thinks he can start farming on nothing but a good bank balance and belief in his own capacity. Farming is a skilled job; you need to be bred to it, to have it in your bones, and to have generations of painfully acquired wisdom behind you.”

“You’re perfectly right, Mr. Brendon,” said St Cyres. “A farmer’s born, not made, and the mentality of the city man can’t be adapted to the slow judgment of the countryman. That’s my opinion, at least. Now, Mr. Gressingham, I was wondering if you cared for shooting? We can’t offer you any high-class sport, but there are still a few partridges and wild duck—the close season doesn’t start before February—and the rabbits need keeping down.”

“Very good of you, Colonel. It would give me a great deal of pleasure. I brought a couple of guns down with me in case I got the chance of a shot.”

“Gressingham’s a first-class shot,” observed Brendon dryly. “Any preserving about here, Colonel?”

“Not since the war. We don’t raise any birds, and the keepers are all otherwise employed,” rejoined St Cyres, “but there has been very little shooting since 1939, and there have been a few birds every year. I go out occasionally and take old Tom Ridd with me—he was a keeper in the old days and he’s very knowledgeable. Hullo, here’s my daughter come to fetch me home.”

Anne walked in, as serene of countenance as ever, and smiled pleasantly at Gressingham.

“Good-evening, Mr. Gressingham. My sister-in-law tells me you’ve fallen in love with Hinton Mallory. It’s a beautiful old house, isn’t it?”

“It is, indeed. May I introduce Mr. Brendon—Miss St Cyres. Yes. I think this house is a wonderful property—and it could be improved so easily. There must be plenty of water for pumping if you dug for it, and I estimate the fall of the river by the mill would drive a fair-sized dynamo. You could get light and a small amount of power—”

“Oh, I’m quite sure you could,” laughed Anne, “but have you suggested it to Mrs. Hesling?”

Gressingham laughed in return. “Of course: equally of course she said she was quite satisfied with the old ways—a hand-pump and oil lamps. Now won’t you have a gin and lime, Miss Anne, or let me mix you a cocktail?”

“Not for me, thanks. I’ve really got to take Daddy home: one of his tenants is coming in to see him about six o’clock. Have you asked Mr. Gressingham if he’d care for some shooting, Daddy? And Mother asked me to apologise for her because she hadn’t called on Mrs. Gressingham. My mother hardly ever gets out in the winter, because of her arthritis, but she hopes your wife will waive formality and come to luncheon one day.”

“Thanks very much. Very good of you,” replied Gressingham. “My wife and I are most anxious to make friends in the locality, Miss Anne. We think it’s a most beautiful part of the world. Of course Meriel is often away, still busy with her driving, but she hopes to be back shortly. Well, Colonel, I won’t try to keep you if you want to be off, but any day you send a message I shall be delighted to come shooting. Very kind of you to suggest it: very neighbourly, as they say hereabouts.”