Читать книгу Bricks and Flowers - Katherine Everett - Страница 10

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While I was staying with my cousin Ina she had given me an immensely long letter, written on many unnumbered loose sheets in large, untidy writing.

“I wish, dear, you would answer this for me. Aurelia is as much your relation as mine, and I think she must be mad, for she keeps writing to me for money, though I never met her. First it was for temperance meetings, and I sent her something, which I am sure was a mistake, for she has kept on ever since asking for subscriptions for all sorts of things—a soldiers’ home, or a drunken artist she says she is reforming. I wrote and told her quite firmly I was not going to send money for any cause and asked her not to write again, but now I get this letter wanting money for a new drum for the Salvation Army, and I can’t quite make out whether she means to play it herself, as she refers to ‘my band’. Will you put her off firmly and make her understand I do not wish to have any more letters from her?”

I wrote to this effect, and had an even longer letter in reply, asking me to beg the Ferrers to finance a shop she wanted to start, and assuring me that if they would invest one thousand pounds in it they would get back two in no time.

There were several additions to the letter after her signature, and one of them said, “I wish you would come and stay with me; you could help me in so many ways.”

The letter came from a rectory in the South of England.

When Ina fell ill I decided to go there, having no other alternative except to go home.

There was no one to meet me at the station, so I took a cab, and when I arrived at the rectory—a large red-brick building—there was no answer on ringing the bell, so the cabman put my luggage in the porch and I was left alone. The porch itself was rather surprising, for on its walls were paintings of lions and tigers in a verdigris-green jungle which was peeling in spots, as the plaster had not taken kindly to oil paint. Having taken in this decoration I rang again, but getting no response I went into the hall and sat down to wait, trying not to feel depressed.

The silence was suddenly broken by someone coughing, and as the sound came from close to me, I knocked at the nearest door and was told to come in.

An elderly clergyman writing at a desk looked up and said in a kindly voice, “Well, my dear, what can I do for you?”

“I have come to stay. Aunt Aurelia invited me—I am Katherine Herbert.”

“Ah yes,” he answered vaguely, and I felt sure he had never heard of me. “I hope you will have a pleasant time. My dear wife is not always punctual, but she will be delighted to see you.”

And with that he dipped his pen in the inkpot and I felt dismissed.

Sitting alone in the hall once more, I observed my surroundings. It was an untidy place, and there was a great deal of furniture in it, and on the wall an enormous picture of lions, from which it appeared that someone must have a perfect passion for these ferocious beasts, and I felt far from sure that I was going to have a pleasant time. Then I heard steps on the gravel and a girl came in, followed by a curate.

“Do you know when Mrs. Everett will be in?” I asked anxiously.

“No, no one could tell you that,” the girl answered, and the curate interposed:

“But perhaps I can help you or take a message?”

Again I explained why I was there.

“We’ll see that your luggage is taken up to your room—Aurelia has probably forgotten that you were coming,” said the girl.

“How dreadful!” I exclaimed. “Ought I to stay?”

“Don’t worry, she will be very pleased to see you. And now let us introduce ourselves. My name is Louie Green, and my guardians placed me here as a paying guest because a rectory sounded so suitable, and he”—indicating the curate—“is called Marmaduke Percival du Cane. With such a name he had to go into the Church,” she added, laughing. “He is no relation of mine, but nice to tease, and is supposed to be useful to the rector.”

A strange-looking man with goggling eyes carried up my trunk and shambled off.

“Who was that?” I asked Louie.

“A sort of artist.”

“Does he live here?”

“Only after he has got very drunk, and then Aurelia collects him and does some praying over him. This time she kept him so long on his knees that he got desperate and drank methylated spirits. You should have seen his eyes roll when Aurelia said she would put a light to his mouth and he would blow up, and he believed it because he was still queer from the effects, but he is better now.”

“Did he paint all the lions and tigers?”

“Oh no, they were done by another artist she helps.”

“Are there no servants?” I asked, looking round the room, in which the bed was not made up.

“There is one called Lizzie, who is always here, and she is a perfect marvel. She would have had it all nice for you if Aurelia had remembered to tell her you were coming. Then there are all sorts of strays who come in to help—people in trouble or out of work or gypsies or girls from a home.”

Tea was a depressing meal, for I was nervous, the curate silent, and Louie making rather foolish conversation; but when Aurelia came in the atmosphere changed, for she was so full of vitality, and pleased to see me. Though making no apologies for having forgotten I was coming, she welcomed me warmly, as I saw later she welcomed anybody who turned up. She was about forty, very fat, though all her movements were vigorous; her cheeks were bright pink and her eyes very blue, and she was untidily dressed and wore men’s boots.

All I tell of Aurelia I feel sure will be thought exaggerated and improbable, yet whatever I write of her I shall still feel that “the half was not told”. People have said, “She was so like my Aunt Julia or exactly like Mrs. So-and-so.” She may have been from one facet, but no one has been completely like her, or so I believe. She had imperturbable sweet temper, was always in good spirits, kind to everyone when she realized kindness was needed, and quite indifferent to and unconscious of discomfort—her own or anyone else’s. People have thought her untruthful and dishonest, but I don’t think she had any idea she ever failed in either of these ways, for she always acted on impulse, and at the moment believed what she said to be true. In years to come, if I left my purse where she happened to see it she might take something out of it, as likely as not to give to someone else, and if reproached would answer vaguely, “You oughtn’t to mind helping people.” Indeed, when she had anything to give to others she was splendidly generous. Her self-confidence was unlimited, especially in her business and organizing capacity, which an unbroken series of failures never shook, and she had a delightful voice and great personal charm.

On this, my first contact with her, I was both attracted and puzzled as she chattered away telling stories it was hard to believe, and then produced a letter, telling us with gusts of laughter, “I got this from the old P.G.’s upstairs. They have paid up and are going to-morrow, and will then hand me the key of their room, which they have never allowed anyone into.” And with more gurgles of amusement she added, “I am to send their letters to the dead-letter office.”

She began to invent absurd theories about them, suggesting that they might have kept a sweet-shop, and when they had made a lot of money sold the shop and worked off their ill-feelings by putting poison in the last of their sweets and posting parcels of them from some strange town to everyone they disliked. Then they changed their name and had hidden in her rectory.

“They are more likely leaving because they haven’t had enough to eat,” Louie put in pertly.

“But there’s always enough to eat,” Aurelia answered vaguely.

“But not perhaps what they expected for all you are charging them.”

“No. I am sure they are hiding from some crime.”

And she started on a fresh theory.

The morning after I arrived Aurelia put us—Louie, the curate, and me—to address envelopes from a long list of names and to put a lithographed letter into each envelope. I read the letter, which was an impassioned appeal for subscriptions for a Soldiers’ Home, badly expressed, but vivid with sentimental descriptions of homeless soldiers being saved from drink and disgrace by the beautiful and prayerful atmosphere of this place, where excellent lemonade was provided.

We worked away all the morning, and Aurelia was delighted when we gave her a packet of ninety-four letters, all stamped and ready for the post.

“Guess how much these will bring in,” she asked gaily.

“Perhaps fifty pounds.”

“More like hundreds of pounds, I hope,” she answered. “And I am sure they will, for I have prayed hard about them. By the way, I asked two officers I met to come in for tennis this afternoon.”

The two young officers arrived, perfectly turned out, their white trousers spotless, and carrying rackets and shoes. Aurelia received them with her natural cordiality, and we all went down the garden, which was beautifully kept by the Rector and his man, whereas the tennis lawn, in which he took no interest, was neglected, the grass uncut, no net, and, of course, no marking. Our visitors looked blank.

Aurelia only observed, “We must mow it; we’ve got a machine, and it won’t take long.”

But it did take a long time. The two young men took off their coats and worked really hard, one mowing and the other sweeping up the grass, for the machine had nothing to catch it in. After they had done it all one way they thought it wouldn’t be playable till they mowed it the other, and after that they rolled it with a heavy roller; when they had finished they stood mopping their foreheads, their shoes green and their trousers far from spotless. Meanwhile Aurelia was slashing wildly with a billhook at branches of overgrown laurels at the back of the court while we dived (at some peril from her vigorous but erratic swipes) to collect the branches.

“Come on in, we’ll have tea now,” she called out.

“Sorry,” the officers answered, “we are on duty at six o’clock, and it’s past five already; we must cut off and change.”

“Come to-morrow and I’ll beat you both at singles,” Aurelia cried; but they were cautious.

“What about marking the court and getting the net up?”

“I’ve got a marking machine, but I don’t think I’ve got any whiting, so perhaps you could bring some. We could run out the lines in no time.”

“All right, we’ll come and bring the whiting. We can’t let your challenge go unanswered.”

They hurried off, and we heard shouts of laughter in the distance. No doubt they had never before been asked to a tennis-party quite like this one.

They came next day, and after they had marked the court and fixed the net I went to fetch Aurelia, who hadn’t turned up so far. She came out wearing an unevenly long black skirt, her usual boots, and no hat.

“Anyone got a bit of string?” she asked.

Some was produced, and she tied it round her ample waist, hitching her skirt through it till it hung just below her knees, and then she looked down at her boots.

“I can’t play in these, and my feet are too large to wear yours”—observing Louie and me—“but I play just as well in my stockinged feet,” and she unlaced her boots, flung them away, and stood up to battle. It was an incredible sight, for she was stout, very fast, and very nimble as she flew about the court facing the slim boy in white. There was a large hole in one of her black stockings through which a pink disc of heel flickered as she bounded about. Before this game the officers had been very polite and were probably shy, but now the one who wasn’t playing rolled on the grass convulsed with laughter, as did Louie and I.

It was a close match, Aurelia playing surprisingly well and hitting very hard, though sometimes rather wildly, but her opponent just managed to beat her. At the end of the second game she called to me, “Get me some lemonade.”

I went back to the house and made a large jugful, which I brought out on a tray with glasses. The set was over, and Aurelia was crimson, and her hair was wet and straggling, for she had lost most of her hairpins. She took glass after glass until the jug was empty, then, seeing this, said, “I’m so sorry; perhaps my partner wanted some.”

“He’s evidently not going to get any,” said the boy, laughing, and added, “Do you mean to tell me you are going to take on Summers now”—indicating his companion—“full up with liquid?”

“Of course I am; I’m only getting into my stride, and I shall sweat off a lot of fat, which is such a good thing.”

They started again, and this time she won.

The whole afternoon was hilarious, and the boys were amused at seeing Aurelia eat three eggs after they had refused them on the plea that it was too near their dinner-time.

“I’m sure I have lost several pounds,” she said, “so I may as well eat what I like.”

“Don’t you always, dear Aurelia?” Louie inquired with ironic politeness.

The morning posts produced answers to our appeal for the Soldiers’ Home—small postal orders, small cheques, large ones, and one for fifty pounds. Aurelia was delighted, and would take these gifts down to the town, after whistling or singing a hymn in her high, piercing voice. The response went on for several days, and then one evening a van packed with furniture came to the door, but Aurelia was vexed and sent it off. I had gone with her, and I heard her say to the driver, “Why did you come here? I told them to send everything to Gedge’s store.”

At that moment a horrible suspicion flashed through my mind: had she bought these things with the money collected? Surely impossible.

I joined Louie and the curate, who was reading, but there was something in the girl’s puzzled expression that made me wonder if the same thought had occurred to her. We were silent for a few minutes, and then she said, “Marmaduke, do attend. I’m worried.”

She generally called him by some nickname, and at the sound of his real name he realized she was serious, and shut his book.

“Listen. You know Aurelia took those cheques to the bank, and not to the treasurer of the Home, and now she has bought a lot of furniture. Has she spent that money on it?”

“Oh, impossible; she couldn’t—it would be criminal.”

“Would you like to ask her?”

At that moment Aurelia came in, her eyes clear, her cheeks glowing, seemingly without a care in the world.

The curate, quite pale and with nervously clenched hands, spoke in a diffident, anxious voice, “Forgive me, I am sure it is all a mistake. You didn’t——” he hesitated, “you couldn’t have used any of that money sent for the Home for any other purpose?”

Aurelia laughed cheerfully.

“Is that what’s bothering you? It’s quite all right; I’m only paying myself back what I gave the Home to start it. You see, I was so anxious to get it going, and I had some money then, so I gave a thousand pounds, which of course was far too much for me, so as soon as I’ve got it back I won’t collect any more.”

The curate jumped to his feet crying, “You don’t understand what you have done. Once given, the money is not yours, and to replace it with charitable gifts collected by yourself—you could be sent to gaol for that.”

“Don’t be so silly,” Aurelia interrupted.

“It’s not being silly, it’s deadly serious. You are collecting money under false pretences, and I must tell the Rector.”

“No, you shall not,” Aurelia cried, and I could see she was shaken. “It is nothing to do with him, and I won’t have him worried.”

“Yes, there you are right. He had better not be incriminated; but God help me, I am—we all are.”

“Oh, don’t fuss so. I won’t collect any more—plenty of other ways of making money.”

The curate was away next day, and returned late in the evening.

“I have seen the Bishop, and told him my share in this dreadful business,” he said. “He was most kind and understanding, and so distressed, and for a time uncertain what he ought to do; then he said, ‘No, I won’t trouble my poor friend Henry Everett, but his wife must give you her solemn promise to cease collecting and to do her utmost to make restitution of the money she has used so wrongly.’ ”

“I don’t see that it is in the least wrong; it’s quite fair to try and get some of my own money back. I gave it and worked hard to start the Home, and now it’s going well. You can tell your silly old Bishop that I don’t care what he thinks.”

I never heard of any restitution, but the collecting ceased at that time.

Many people criticized the Rector for letting his wife do the things she did, suggesting all sorts of reasons to explain his passive attitude, but I think the truth is very simple—he just couldn’t stop her. She was much younger than he was, and I think he was fond of her, and even proud of her vitality and vigour. His health was failing and he needed peace in his private life. He trained her to respect his study since one day, soon after they married, he had come home to find all its contents out of doors in the rain—books, papers, furniture, pictures and photographs of Oxford groups, all sodden. These he had carried in and dried as far as was possible, and on her return he took her by the hand, got a Bible and said, “You know the nature of an oath. Kiss that book and repeat after me that you swear before God that as long as you live you will never touch, alter, or rearrange anything whatever in my study.”

She started to protest, saying she had meant to put them all back and she was going to make it look so much nicer, but he stopped her and made her repeat the oath. She kept it, and I have seen her pause like a well-trained dog and desist when tempted. In all the confusion and disorder in that house, only his study was conventional and tidy. Lizzie, the devoted servant, kept it clean and dusted and saw to his comfort as far as she could. Thus these two dissimilar people lived their separate lives in a friendly spirit.

The Rector was loved, respected, and pitied, and his wife went her own erratic way. On occasions the Rector would protest sternly, as he did when she headed the singing of blood-curdling hymns to the accompaniment of the Salvation Army band outside his church while he was preaching.