Читать книгу Fire in the Thatch - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 19
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ОглавлениеWhen Anne left Little Thatch and turned along the lane to her own home—it was only a few hundred yards away—she saw with some annoyance that Tom Gressingham was just walking towards her in company with June. The latter laughed when she saw Anne.
“So that’s where you’ve been, my dear, hobnobbing with the hermit. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
Anne realised with discomfort that her own face had flushed—a thing which seldom happened. June’s voice and manner irritated her, but she replied sedately: “Yes, I enjoyed myself very much, thank you. Mr. Vaughan was showing me how much nicer the house looks now it’s all clean and repainted.”
“But how nice!” exclaimed Gressingham. “You are privileged, Miss Anne. I thought no one was permitted to view the hermit’s property—but you are the exception to prove the rule.”
“Walk down to Hinton Mallory with us, Anne,” said June. “Tom’s got a new radio, and he’s also got a new cocktail.”
“Come and sample both, and meet my guests, too, Miss Anne,” added Gressingham.
“Thanks very much, but I must be getting back,” said Anne. “Dickon has a day off, and I’ve got to see about the hens and ducks.”
“Oh, you’ll turn into a hen yourself one day,” retorted June, and Gressingham put in:
“Not a hen, my child, a duck—it sounds so much prettier.”
Anne was conscious of a desire to box his ears, but she replied placidly, “It’s all very well for you two to laugh about hens and ducks, but you both love eggs and poultry. If somebody didn’t see the birds were fed regularly and safely shut up at night you’d get neither eggs nor roast chick.”
“How true,” said Gressingham. “Robbing the hen-roost, or the dirge of the duck. I can’t tell you how much I admire your constancy, sweet Anne of Manor Thatch.”
The two strolled on laughing, and Anne moved on her way, walking parallel with Vaughan’s garden. To her surprise she saw him standing by the gate of his pasture.
“I say, if you’d ever like that chap to have the hiding he richly deserves, you’ve only got to say so,” he said. “He’s my own idea of a very dirty dog.”
“Thanks for saying it, but please don’t have any brawls here,” replied Anne. “It would make things a lot worse, and I find it hard enough to keep my temper as it is.”
Gressingham and June walked together down the sloping meadow path towards Hinton Mallory. It had been one of those rare spring days when the sun was hot enough to make the daffodils hang their heads, and every hedgerow was gay with budding foliage, with blackthorn in drifts of snow whiteness, with willow trees asmother with pollened flowers and primroses shining in enamelled bosses among the fresh green on the banks. June cared nothing for wild flowers, for budding trees or singing birds: lambs could caper and calves leap—she was quite indifferent—but she was aware that her own vitality responded to the rising temperature, to the radiance of the sun and the sense of wellbeing imparted by the gay spring day. She hummed a song as she walked through the meadow, and Gressingham pinched her arm.
“Feeling the old world’s not such a bad place after all, honey?—a place to be happy in.”
“Oh, the world’d be all right, especially if the damned war was over and I was walking down Piccadilly in decent clothes with some money in my pocket,” she replied.
“Why not?” murmured Gressingham, and then added: “I can’t make that man out—Vaughan, as he calls himself.”
“Why not?” mocked June. “It’s his name, isn’t it?”
“Maybe, though I should hate to put any money on it,” responded Gressingham. “The more I think about him the more I’m convinced there’s something fishy about him. Why does a chap like that hide himself down here—because hide he does. He never so much as shows his face outside his own garden, and he’s put those wattle screens across every gap in his fences.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t like people looking into his garden every time they pass by,” replied June.
“Does Miss St Cyres go there often?” enquired Gressingham, and she laughed.
“Scenting a scandal, Tom? Don’t you believe it! Anne’s as virtuous as she’s dull, and I can’t give her a more complete testimonial. She approves of the Vaughan man, and so does Pops, so he must be a creature after their own hearts, a man who loves mud and dung and farmyard smells, and never expects to enjoy anything. Don’t go harping on about him, he bores me, Tom. Tell me about these men you’ve got staying with you. Anyone amusing?”
“There’s Bill Potter—he’s been a film actor and he’s a very good dancer, also a very good bridge player. He’s about thirty years of age and has done most of the things he shouldn’t if that’s any recommendation. Then there’s Rummy Radcliffe—I believe his real front name is Raymond but he’s always known as Rummy. He made a pot of money before the war, speculating. He’s one of those uncanny birds who can always smell the way the market’s going. It’s a sort of extra sense, I’ve never known him slip up—and there aren’t many speculators you can say that for.”
“Perhaps he’d like to speculate with some of my pennies and make a bean or two for me,” said June, but Gressingham laughed.
“Not during the war, sweet—that sort of game can’t be played these days. If you want money, June, you can have it. I’ve told you so.”
“Oh, what’s the use of saying that—we’ve argued it all out before,” she retorted. “I’m the wife of Denis St Cyres, and the daughter-in-law of that old ramrod, and sister-in-law to that virtuous suet pudding, and here I’m stuck. Damn everything! How do you persuade your friends to come down to this hole, Tom? You must be very attractive to get your men-friends to put up with Hinton Mallory.”
“Oh, but I am very attractive—hadn’t you noticed it?” he laughed back. “You’re very shrewd, June—it’s quite true that my visitors have a reason for coming which isn’t always connected with roast chicken for dinner and ham and eggs for breakfast. I’ve got a few ideas, you know, and some of these fellows like to cash in on ideas. Now I don’t believe you’d find this part of the world nearly so boring if there was a first-class hotel near at hand—one of the country club variety, with a cocktail bar, and a dance floor, and all the trimmings.”
“Goodness, is that the idea? I thought you told Pops you wanted to farm.”
“So I do, until I’ve acquired some land, honey—then: well, we shall just see.”
“Shall we?” she asked speculatively. “You won’t get any land here, Tom, and I can’t see why you should choose this neighbourhood. It’s not the sort of place for a hotel.”
“No? Well, you think things out, angel. There’s a lot to be said for seclusion—and, believe me, the hotel industry is going to boom in a year or so. Ah, there’s Rummy. Don’t be put off by appearances, June. I know he’s fat—but he’s amusing.”
They had reached the gate of Hinton Mallory: a pleasant garden lay in front of the old house, and the grass plot had just been scythed—for the benefit of Gressingham and his friends. A very stout man in a checked tweed suit was practising putting on the so-called lawn, and Gressingham called to him.
“Come and be introduced, Rummy. This is Mrs. St Cyres. May I introduce Rummy Radcliffe, June?”
“Charmed,” said the stout man. He had a deep booming voice and his round face was almost ludicrous, for he had a tiny pursed up mouth and globular eyes behind exaggerated horn-rimmed glasses.
“He’s just like a fish... one of these things in the Zoo Aquarium,” thought June to herself. Rummy’s hands were fat, podgy and clammy.
“I take it that you come from the Manor,” boomed Rummy, “a very fascinating old property, I’d say, but in need of modernising. It’s shocking what people put up with. I’ve been having a nose round, Tom. I should love to be able to develop this property. It’d be the easiest job in the world to make a private road across those fields. No object at all in meandering for miles before you get here. Did you ever see such a crazy business as the road-system hereabouts, Mrs. St Cyres—and as for blind corners, God bless my soul, it’s criminal! I was frightened out of my wits before I got here.”
“So you may have been,” said June, “but the people hereabouts would be delighted to hear you say so. They don’t encourage other people’s cars in this part of the world, and they’re quite happy to drive their own at an average of ten miles an hour.”
“You don’t say so!” boomed Rummy, and Tom Gressingham put in,
“Come inside and have a quick one, June. Ah, here’s Bill.”
Bill Potter was tall and lanky—a good contrast to the rotund Rummy, and the four of them strolled into Gressingham’s sitting-room, where a new cocktail cabinet had been fitted into a corner and a big portable radio was crooning noisily.
“Did you find a fourth for bridge, Tom?” enquired Potter, but Gressingham shook his head.
“Sorry, I’m afraid I haven’t. I’d counted on Howard Brendon, but he couldn’t come. Tiresome of him. He’s been coming over twice a week for some time past, and he’s a damned good bridge player.”
“Brendon? Is it true his wife’s left him?” asked Rummy, who had been manipulating the cocktail shaker, and Gressingham replied,
“God knows, I don’t. I’ve never seen the lady. I did my best to get a fourth for you, Bill. I went and asked the bloke at Little Thatch.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed June, “you must be mad! Did you really imagine the hermit could play bridge? You’re an optimist—and if he did, he’d come in corduroys and reek of cow dung, and lick his fingers every time he played a card. Why, the creature’s simply uncouth!”
“Why? Been trying to do the glamour girl at Little Thatch?” enquired Gressingham, and Radcliffe put in:
“Little Thatch? That’s the hovel up the hill, isn’t it? In the layout I was planning I should make that cottage the lodge—I can see it all.”
“Who’s the creature you’re talking about?” enquired Potter, and Tom Gressingham replied:
“He’s the tenant of Little Thatch. He’s uncouth to look at, I grant you, but he’s an educated man, and he’s been in the Navy—and some of those naval blokes are very hot bridge players.”
“You make me tired!” laughed June. “He couldn’t have been anything but a common rating.”
“No matter. Takes all sorts to make a world,” said Rummy amiably. “I should like to have had a word with him. If we get things going according to plan, an ex-naval man at the lodge might be useful.”
“Useful as chucker-out?” enquired June. “Look here, Tom. It’s time you left off leading your friends up the garden path. You know you can’t get any land round here. It all belongs to my father-in-law, and he’d die rather than sell you any land.”
“Keep cool, darling. Your pops isn’t the only landowner in the county. Rummy’s a bit premature in his plans, but he’s always like that. I can’t tell you how many properties I’ve seen him reorganise—on paper. It’s a hobby of his, and believe me, some of his ideas come off.”
“Don’t you play bridge, Mrs. St Cyres?” enquired Potter, but June answered, “I do—but my bridge isn’t out of the top drawer, and I’m not going to play with you three. I’m too lazy to concentrate. I’d rather play vingt-et-un or roulette.”
“That’s okay by me,” said Rummy amiably, and Gressingham put in:
“Toddle home and put on a pretty frock, darling, and come and dine with us. Safety in numbers, and we’ll see you home.”
“A lovely idea!” said June. “Put on a long frock and pretty slippers and splash through the mud or walk down the field to get here, and then remember Manor Thatch is locked up at ten o’clock. If I stay out after that Anne will sit up until I come in, and offer me hot cocoa when I arrive. No thanks. I said I was lazy, and I am. It’s too much bother to argue with them. I’ve tried it and I’m beaten.”
“Darling, don’t say that,” expostulated Gressingham. “We shall have to get you out of this. Can’t have your spirit broken.”
“I shall be all right when I live in a civilised place again,” said June. “I’m not intending to stay here indefinitely.”
She took a few steps in tune to the radio, which was producing dance music, and Bill Potter slipped an arm round her and they slithered in and out between the heavy furniture.
Rummy filled his glass again and addressed Gressingham, “Who is that chap at Little Thatch? I saw him back his car in when I passed. Big hulking brute, what? Think I might go and have a word with him. You never know. That cottage of his might come in very useful.”
“You can try to have a word with him if you like, Rummy, but I tell you it’s no go. The chap’s bats—or else he’s a ticket-of-leave man. The one thing he’s quite determined about is that he’s going to steer clear of everybody. If you go and see him he’ll only be offensive.”
“That so? Well, a ticket-of-leave man might have his uses. When I’m on to a scheme I’m always out to employ local talent, and, if a fellow’s got something to hide, in my opinion it’s policy to find out what that something is.”
Gressingham shrugged his shoulders and called across the room to June,
“Have another one, honey—just a little one!”
