Читать книгу Time and the Hour - Howard Spring - Страница 37

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This was a Saturday. The visit was not a long one as Dick Hudson had to be in Bradford for a matinée on the Monday, and, trusting Harry Pordage little enough as a driver, he told the party that they must be ready to leave on that day immediately after an early breakfast.

Luncheon was a miserable meal for both Anthony and Septimus. Neither of them could get a word in edgeways. Chris Hudson and Lottie Wayland, merely by talking in colloquial and idiomatic French, had everyone else silent. Septimus would have been capable of reciting passages in French from Ronsard to Rostand, but this was no occasion for scholastic virtuosity; this was something other. He was at sea, and he lapsed into an offended silence, growing pinker and pinker. Harry Pordage and Dick Hudson were content to give their attention to the food, accompanied by excellent wine, on which it had been Septimus’s intention to say a few good words. He sulkily refrained, and merely pushed the bottle along from time to time. When the others were drinking their coffee he asked to be excused and went to his room, pausing at the door to say: “I speak passable English, Harry, and if either of these two young people would care for an elementary lesson I could spare a moment.”

As he closed the door, Lottie said “Touché!” and Chris Hudson laughed.

Anthony was furious for all sorts of reasons: because those two had shown him up, because Septimus had been caught out, and because Septimus had been so foolish as to give himself away by a feeble protest. He said: “You’re overdoing it, Chris. Don’t you think it sounds rather like swank? Any guttersnipe in France could yammer away as you’re doing, but knowing something about France and the French language and French literature—well, that’s another matter, and that’s where Mr. Pordage would make you feel a very silly little boy.” He added: “And you’re one without much in the way of manners.”

Chris began: “Mais, Antoine ...” and Anthony cut him short. “Oh, chuck it, you swank-pot. Anthony to you, if you want to speak to me at all.”

He was glad to see Chris Hudson shrivel—almost cower, as he used to do in the school-yard. He had been surprised at the change a year had made in Chris. He had a self-confidence that made him seem a new person; but Anthony was wise enough to see that this defended him only when he was doing something better than it could be done by those around him. A sharp word, and it was gone.

Anthony apologised to Dick Hudson and Harry Pordage, and walked out of the room. Dick said: “You got what you were asking for, Chris. You shouldn’t encourage him, Lottie lass. We all know by now that he can parley fransay with the best—and all thanks to you and your mother for that. But there’s times and seasons like, and there was no call to be rude to Mr. Pordage, which is what you were.”

Harry said lugubriously: “He’s a queer fish, is Sep. Looks as well padded as a feather-bed, but if you tweak his nerves you can hear him screaming inside. So lay off it, Chris boy. As that young chap said, it sounded a bit too much like swank.”

Chris was not one to take a reproof and ask whether he had earned it. He said: “The sooner we’re back in Megson Street the better. I didn’t ask to come.”

“Ah, well, that’s English, anyway,” Harry said. “Come on, Dick. Let’s give old Skinny Liz a hand with the washing-up.”

“Shan’t I do that?” Lottie asked.

“Nay, lass,” Dick said. “Go and find yon Anthony. I expect he’s been looking forward to seeing you after all these months. He’ll want news of his auntie.”