Читать книгу Fire in the Thatch - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 18

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As the days lengthened, Nicholas Vaughan worked steadily over his ground at Little Thatch. Colonel St Cyres, who looked in on his new tenant occasionally with a fatherly eye, was impressed with the amount of work Vaughan accomplished. The garden was dug through before January was out, and then Vaughan fitted up a lean-to greenhouse against the wall of the linhey. A petrol pump was fitted to the farther well, and a second-hand electric plant was assembled by Vaughan in the outbuildings and insulated piping laid to connect it with the house and greenhouse. By Lady Day he had the greenhouse well stocked with seedlings and he had bought four sturdy young bullocks to graze in the pasture below Little Thatch. During the past month he had persuaded old Reuben Dickon—brother to the gardener at Manor Thatch—to come and work for him, and Colonel St Cyres was amused and interested to see the old man and the young one digging side by side in tacit understanding. Dickon was a bent, gnarled old peasant, as sturdy as the gnarled and ancient hawthorn trees which grew in the hedge banks, and the old man still dug with the slow, practised skill which achieved so much more than seemed possible from the slow action. Dickon was very deaf, and on the rare occasions he spoke it was in a husky roar which could be heard right along the valley.

“Thiccy weeds, dang ’un!” he would shout, as he triumphantly routed out an intractable root stock of sow thistle or dandelion, or yards of leathery runners of couch grass or gout weeds. “That’s got he, the barstard!” he would roar in occasional triumph.

It was at Easter that Anne St Cyres was asked by Vaughan to come to inspect his house. She had met him in the lane as she returned from church on Good Friday, and had stopped to talk to him.

“My father waxes eloquent about all you’ve done in your garden,” she said. “I believe he’s a bit jealous: he says your ground’s better tilled than ours is now.”

“Oh, the garden won’t look like anything this year,” he had answered. “I shall get some decent crops off it, given reasonable luck, because the ground’s good, but you can’t make a garden in a year. House painting’s much quicker work. Won’t you come in and inspect some time? I’d value your opinion.”

“Thanks very much, I should love to come,” she replied. “I’ve always been fond of Little Thatch. I’ve often said that when I’m old I shall live there myself. It’s such a friendly house.”

“It is that,” he replied with that sudden smile of his. “I believe I talk to it! Often when I’ve been painting or distempering the walls on these long evenings I’ve found myself having a chat with the house. Will you come in and have tea one day next week and tell me what you think about it?”

“Thanks very much. Will Tuesday do—about five o’clock—and may I bring you some seedlings, or are you one of those haughty people who despise all plants save those you’ve raised yourself?”

“Indeed I’m not—especially during my first year at Little Thatch. Tuesday at five—that’ll be fine.”

Anne was a correct young woman. When she arrived at Little Thatch on Tuesday she went to the front door and knocked, instead of going to the kitchen door, which always stood open.

Nicholas Vaughan opened the door with a smiling face. “Come in,” he said. “You’re my first visitor—”

He broke off as Anne cried out in sheer delight. “Oh, but it’s lovely! I wouldn’t have believed you could have done it all so quickly.”

She stood in the little hall and saw the long, sunlit sitting-room agleam in the mellow light. The walls were now pale honey colour, the paint work shining cream, and the great beams were stripped and stained, almost black against the cream ceiling. A fire burned merrily in the old grate, and the floor was stained dark like the beams. Against the long wall opposite the windows book cases had been fitted into position, their shelves filled with books, and one comfortable grandfather chair stood by the fire.

“The furniture will arrive by degrees,” said Vaughan. “I’m buying things as I see them. Come and see the kitchen—I hope you don’t mind having tea in the kitchen, but I thought it’d be more comfortable. The parlour’s not ready for company yet.”

The kitchen compared very favourably with the “parlour,” for it was as clean and comely. The table was scrubbed to whiteness, and the china neatly set out, with loaf and butter, oatcakes and honey, and a big fruit cake. The kettle was boiling on the small range, and Nicholas Vaughan made tea with the neatness of a man well accustomed to managing for himself.

“Will you pour out?” he enquired, after he had held Anne’s chair in place for her. “I made that cake. I had to tell you. I’m just bursting with excitement over it. It’s only sheer will-power which prevented me cutting it before you came, because I’m all agog to see if it’s cooked properly.”

Anne laughed back at him, noting how much his face had changed since she first saw him. He had discarded his eye-shade, and though the scars on his face were still obvious they were no longer disfiguring. He looked happy, and his weather-tanned face was fresh and healthy.

“It looks a jolly good cake,” she said, “and I’m sure it’s well baked—it’s risen so nicely. Where did you learn to cook?”

“I was always keen on sailing, and I had to cook in the cuddy—you learn to be neat on a small sailing boat. It took a bit of time to get on terms with the range here—I hadn’t seen one of that type before. It’s peculiar to the county, isn’t it? but I’ve got it tamed, even though I had to take it half to pieces. The chimney was partly blocked with birds’ nests, and it smoked like Hades. I’d say your old Timothy Yeo didn’t do much cooking, and as for smoke, he must have loved it. Do have some honey. I got that from young Hesling down in the valley. I’m going to get a few hives of my own soon.”

“You like plenty to do, don’t you?” laughed Anne. “What with the house and the garden and the ducks and the geese and bullocks you can’t find any time left to be bored.”

“No, rather not. I find the days go all too fast, there’s such a lot I want to do,” he replied. “It’s all a great lark. I’ve always wanted a bit of land of my own, and I’m enjoying it.”

As Anne ate her tea—and being a healthy creature she enjoyed a good tea—she observed the neat kitchen in which they sat. Vaughan obviously used this room as his living-room, and he had a small table with a bookshelf above it on one side of the chimney piece. There was a typewriter on the table, and the books appeared to be reference books. Vaughan caught the direction of her glance, and observed, “I’ve found the typewriter useful while my eyes have been out of action. I couldn’t see at all for the first month or two after I was knocked out, and I was glad I’d learnt to type. I’m able to read again now, though only for a short while at a time. You can guess how useful all the gardening and house-painting were—kept me from moping. Now what about this cake?—oh, who the dickens is that?”

He got up as Anne cut the cake and opened the kitchen door in answer to the knock. Anne did not look round, but she heard the visitor’s voice—it was Tom Gressingham.

“I hope you don’t mind me looking you up, Mr. Vaughan,” said the deep, complacent voice. “I was wondering if you’d care for a game of bridge. I’m staying down at Hinton Mallory and I’ve got a couple of cronies staying with me. We’d be delighted if you’d look in for a drink and a game of bridge one evening.”

“Thanks, I don’t play bridge,” replied Vaughan stolidly, and Gressingham replied:

“No? What a pity. This is a very nice little property you’ve got, Mr. Vaughan. Just the sort of thing I fancy myself.”

“I’m afraid it’s not to let, and neither is it for sale,” replied Vaughan, and his voice was not encouraging.

Gressingham replied: “Oh, I wasn’t suggesting anything of that kind, but I hope you won’t mind if I just glance round your garden. I’m interested in gardens.”

“So am I, and when mine’s ready for inspection I’ll put up a notice to that effect,” replied Vaughan. “Until then, it’s private property, like anybody else’s garden. Good day to you.”

He closed the door and came into the kitchen again. “I hope I haven’t been being offensive to a friend of yours, Miss St Cyres,” he said, “but that fellow gets my goat. He’s always snooping round, and if there’s one country habit which I respect it’s that of not prying on your neighbours.”

“So do I,” said Anne firmly. “That, as you probably know, is Mr. Gressingham. He retains rooms at Hinton Mallory and comes down here frequently. He is a friend of my sister-in-law’s, so I try to be civil to him out of politeness to her, though I admit I don’t like him—and I wasn’t a bit sorry to hear you speak to him as you did. I think it’s insufferable for a stranger to come and poke his nose in and expect to be made free of other people’s gardens. I congratulate you on your cake, Mr. Vaughan. It’s a jolly good cake.”

Vaughan cut himself another large slice with a happy grin. “Seems all right to me,” he said, “but I’m not exactly a connoisseur. Steak and kidney pudding’s my long suit, though I often wonder where all the kidneys go to these days. They’re as rare as new-laid eggs in the Navy.”

After they had finished tea Vaughan took Anne round the empty house, showing the freshly painted bedrooms with the pride of a schoolboy. He was evidently very clever with his hands as well as something of a mechanic and electrician. He had got some of the rooms wired for lighting, but his great pride was “water laid on.” He had contrived a frame to hold a water cistern at one end of the house and the pipes were already in place to feed the kitchen sink. Later he intended to fit a bath in, and told Anne how he overcame the difficulties of boring holes in the ancient cob walls. She found him an entertaining person, and entered into all his plans with enthusiasm coupled to a helpful knowledge of old buildings and the peculiarities of their fabrics. When she stood at the door to bid him good-bye and thank him for his courtesy Anne added: “You’ll have to give a party when you’ve got the house finished—a real house-warming.”

“Rather—I shall—and I hope you and your father will come,” he replied.