Bramton Wick

by Elizabeth Fair

  Mrs. Cole put the parcel on the kitchen table and asked if Mrs. Trimmer was on her way to see Enid. Enid was the married daughter who lived on the Bramworthy road.

  “No, it’s me aunt. Not that I’d be seeing ’er so soon after last time if I didn’t ’ave to,” said Mrs. Trimmer, who always spoke of her relatives with perfect candour, “but she asked me to get ’er some of that fine crochet cotton which they ’ave in Bodgers’ at Bramton and which can’t be got, seemingly, in Bramworthy. Wants it to make a doochess set for Christmas, so I thought she’d better ’ave it now.”

  “Is it for your aunt at Endbury?”

  Mrs. Trimmer had several aunts, but she nodded vigorously. “There she sits, ’er and Cook, every evening, tat-tatting away, and what they do with all the stuff they make fair beats me, Christmas excepting, of course,” she said.

  Mrs. Cole was delighted to hear that Mrs. Trimmer was on her way to Endbury; it would save a post. Mrs. Trimmer put the letter into her capacious black bag and promised not to forget it, and to compensate her for her trouble, Mrs. Cole told her that it was an invitation to lunch on Sunday, for she knew that Mrs. Trimmer loved to know all that was going on.

  Mrs. Trimmer nodded again and looked comprehending and mysterious.

  “I won’t forget,” she said emphatically. “Shouldn’t forgive meself if I forgot a thing like that.” She fiddled with the lamp of her bicycle—for they were now indulging in the usual prolonged farewells at the back door—and as she turned away she said, with a mother-to-mother intonation:

  “Miss Laura’s looking ever so pretty these days, isn’t she, M’m?”

  Once again Mrs. Cole was left with the impression that other people knew far more than she did about what was going on.

  Mrs. Cole was, except where the garden was concerned, notoriously absent-minded, and after breakfast the next morning, when nothing more had been said about the invitation and it was too late to catch the first post, Laura began to hope that she had forgotten about it. If she did not write today it would be too late to write at all.

  At breakfast they talked about the garden; it was a fine morning, the labourers were energetically at work, and as soon as she had satisfied her conscience by doing a little dusting— because poor Laura was single-handed this morning—Mrs. Cole put on her gum-boots and hurried out of doors. There were a lot of plants to be lifted and transferred to the new beds, and plenty of other work to keep her busy and happy. Watching her, Laura felt happier too; it seemed clear that this was to be a day devoted to gardening.

  It was on her conscience that she had never been to visit Miss Garrett in Bramworthy Hospital. She might go that afternoon, but it would be as well to find out first if Miss Garrett was still there, and she decided to walk down to Bank Cottage and ask Miss Selbourne. The housework was done, the lunch prepared; and she was not likely to meet Toby or Lady Masters in Wick Lane.

  She walked slowly down the lane, enjoying in a melancholy way the mild warmth of the sunshine. At the gate of Bank Cottage she met Miss Selbourne returning from a walk in the other direction, accompanied by a number of dogs. All the dogs except Agnes and Leo were attached to her by long leashes and was in constant danger of being tripped up as they bounded and frisked around her. None of Miss Selbourne’s dogs had ever been trained to walk to heel.

  “Come inside!” she called cheerfully. “Can’t stop here—they don’t like it.” Laura opened the gate and they went into the paddock, where the dogs were unleashed for a final scamper before being shut up in their kennels.

  Laura was a little surprised to find Miss Selbourne exercising her dogs, for that had been one of the tasks considered suitable for Jocelyn. She looked about her; he was nowhere to be seen, and she wondered if his enthusiasm for dog-breeding had already waned. But she knew it would not be tactful to ask after Jocelyn or Miss Garrett before asking after the dogs. Her inquiries produced a long and detailed account of each individual dog, which was rather boring because she found it difficult to tell them apart and still more difficult to invent new expressions of interest, sympathy, and admiration. But at last the subject was exhausted, and with the aid of a bag of biscuits Miss Selbourne began to lure the dogs themselves back to their kennels.

  “Can’t Jocelyn help you with all this?” Laura suggested.

  Miss Selbourne looked up from her task. She appeared a little embarrassed.

  “Jocelyn’s a great help,” she said, “in other ways.”

  Laura supposed that Jocelyn was doing some gardening for a change. It was true that Mrs. Worthy had paid a premium for him to learn about dog-breeding, but her real object had been to get him out of Major Worthy’s way. Provided she kept him occupied, Miss Selbourne was earning her money; but since she was plainly uneasy about the manner of Jocelyn’s employment, Laura said no more, but went on to ask about Miss Garrett.

  “She’s with Shrimp Fisher, over at Copyhanger. She left hospital last Monday. Yes, quite all right, I think, but I haven’t seen her.” Miss Selbourne fastened the last dog into its kennel and said coldly: “I had a very rude letter from Shrimp. Obviously she believes every word Tiger says. But she’ll learn.”

  “And what about Miss Garrett’s dogs?” Laura asked. After you had spent a short time with Miss Selbourne you instinctively began to think in terms of dogs.

  “Shrimp is having some kennels built. Then they are coming over to fetch them.”

  She added rather sadly that she would miss the dogs very much.

  Laura looked at her watch and said she must go home and see to the lunch. They walked back across the paddock and as they neared the house Jocelyn came out of the back door. He was wearing a large white apron, which quite altered his appearance, and held a frying pan in his hand. He addressed himself to Miss Selbourne.

  “I’ve found some more fat,” he announced. “So we can have them fried after all.”

  “Oh, Jocelyn, how clever of you,” she said admiringly.

  There was a short pause. Then Miss Selbourne put a brave face on it and confessed that Jocelyn was doing the cooking, because it really suited both of them very much better that way.

  “I have my lunch and tea here,” Jocelyn explained. Then if we’re late I don’t keep Uncle Curtis waiting. Aunt Gwennie lets me have some rations. She doesn’t mind a bit. But don’t tell her I’m doing the cooking, because it might upset Uncle Curtis.”

  “Jocelyn’s a much better cook than I am. And it gives me so much more time for the dogs.”

  “I do the housework too. Come in, Laura, and have a look.”

  In a happy chorus, strophe and antistrophe, Miss Selbourne and her apprentice extolled the merits of their new system. Laura was taken into the house and shown the kitchen, where Jocelyn had cleaned the pans and scrubbed the table and mended the dripping tap. The kitchen was no longer dominated by dogs’ food and dogs’ plates, and there was a new cake cooling on the dresser. She saw at a glance that the rest of the house had received little attention; there was still dust in the corners and dogs’ hairs everywhere. But Miss Selbourne was used to this, and probably both she and Jocelyn preferred a cosy squalor to fresh air and furniture polish.

  “You must come to tea,” said Miss Selbourne. “Jocelyn’s getting very good at cakes, and his drop-scones are a dream.” Jocelyn accepted these compliments with a modest smile. It was just his luck, he seemed to say, that cooking should happen to be his talent.

  Chapter Eighteen

  On Sundays, Major Worthy liked his breakfast an hour later than on weekdays. Afterwards, if it was a fine morning, he went for a short walk; if it was wet he inspected his greenhouse. At eleven o’clock the Sunday papers arrived, and these occupied him till lunchtime.

  The duty of public worship was delegated to Mrs. Worthy, and he liked her to go to church at least once, and preferably twice, a month. This did not excuse her from her other duties of bedmaking and cooking. Mrs. Worthy sometimes wished that she in her turn could delegate some of her tasks to Clara, but it was impo
ssible because Clara always went to Bramworthy on Sundays to visit her aged mother. Major Worthy was not unreasonable, and if she left everything ready he was perfectly willing to cooperate by putting the joint and the potatoes in the oven, but nevertheless church-going Sundays were difficult and strenuous times for his wife. Too often she arrived panting at the church door after the service had begun, and had to creep into a seat at the back because she could not face the walk up the aisle to her front pew.

  This morning everything went well until the moment came to start the car. Mrs. Worthy was not mechanically-minded, but she realized that the sad little grunts the car gave when she pressed the self-starter meant that something was wrong. She went on pressing the self-starter till there was no longer the slightest response. Experience had taught her that in such a crisis it was no good appealing to Curtis, since he knew no more about cars than she did and disliked having his ignorance exposed. There was nothing for it but to give up the idea of going to church, and she walked down the drive to close the gate she had previously opened.

  As she stood at the gate she saw a car approaching her and heading towards Bramton. It was nearly certain to be someone on the way to church, and almost without thinking Mrs. Worthy raised her hand in a vague gesture for help. The car slowed down, then stopped, and Lady Masters’s face appeared at the window, looking benevolent but slightly annoyed.

  “Get in, get in,” said Lady Masters, opening the door and then setting the car in motion again almost before her passenger was safely bestowed. She was alone, and as she was a much faster driver than Mrs. Worthy they would be there in plenty of time. All the same, Mrs. Worthy felt that she had made a social error, and she continued to grovel until her benefactress relaxed and said affably that with old cars like Mrs. Worthy’s one could always expect trouble.

  “It is time you got a new one,” she continued. “Not brand-new, of course—you wouldn’t be able to get that—but a good second-hand one. It would really pay you.”

  Mrs. Worthy said humbly that they couldn’t afford it. Lady Masters repeated, with kindly impatience, that it would pay them. “People are always saying they can’t afford this or that, when a moment’s clear thinking would show them that money well spent is an investment.” They were already in Bramton, and as she drew up outside the church she nodded at another car standing a few feet away. “Look at that, Mrs. Worthy, that’s what I mean. It’s a disgrace—a confession of failure. If Miles Corton had any sense he’d sell that car tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Worthy looked at the blue car. It was certainly very shabby but otherwise there did not appear to be anything wrong with it. Feeling sympathetic towards Mr. Corton, she found herself defending his car with tactless zeal; fortunately they arrived at the lych-gate before she had time to say how much she disliked the appearance of all modern cars, and by common consent they fell into silence as they walked up the path to the church door. In a magnanimous whisper Lady Masters said that she would wait for Mrs. Worthy in the porch after the service was over.

  By the time they had discussed the sermon, the peculiarities of the vicar’s intonation, and the choice of hymns, they were within sight of Mrs. Worthy’s home. When they reached the gate Lady Masters drew into the side of the road and switched off the engine.

  “What a beautiful morning,” she said, as if she were seeing it for the first time. “Quite, quite divine. Don’t run away, Mrs. Worthy—a day like this is too good to be spent indoors.”

  Mrs. Worthy thought of the joint roasting in the oven, the potatoes needing basting, Curtis looking at his watch. “Yes, indeed, quite a lovely day,” she agreed. “Quite like summer. But really—”

  “You have a fine view from here. It would have been better if the house had faced more to the south. Strange that your architect did not see that, but so many architects think only of the appearance of the house, not of the poor unfortunate beings who are going to live in it.”

  Lady Masters gave a playful laugh, but Mrs. Worthy did not care to hear herself described as a poor unfortunate being.

  “We face almost due south,” she protested, “only a little bit to the west, which is better because of the sunsets. My husband designed the house himself, we did not have an architect. As I said at the time, we did not need one, as Curtis was so good at drawing and knew just what was wanted, and had lived in so many houses—being in the Army, you know, and in India. Though, of course, that was different because they were all bungalows and no stairs.”

  “Very different, I imagine. I have never been in India. England is good enough for me,” Lady Masters said patriotically. She coughed and changed the subject, for Mrs. Worthy must not be encouraged to argue.

  “And how is your young nephew? I hear that he is working for Miss Selbourne.”

  At any other time Mrs. Worthy would have been glad to speak of Jocelyn’s career, of the difficulties she had successfully overcome, and of the merits of the present arrangement. But now she fiddled with her gloves and replied briefly that he was very well; then with her hand on the door she began her speech of thanks for the lift, interrupting herself to ask hurriedly after Toby’s health, which she ought to have done sooner. “Quite settled and happy, I hope?” She tucked her Prayer Book under her arm. “Farming . . . so suitable. . . .” Out of the tail of her eye she saw Curtis standing in the porch, in an attitude of restrained impatience.

  Lady Masters thanked her and said Toby was very fit except for a cold. “I am sorry you are in such a hurry,” she continued. “You should learn to relax. ‘What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?’ The poets speak truth, Mrs. Worthy.”

  It was Major Worthy who was standing and staring. “Yes,” said Mrs. Worthy, “but I have the lunch to see to. Clara—that is, our maid—goes out on Sundays. Another time—any other time—but, of course—”

  “Ah, these domestic duties, how they tie us! I am fortunate today,” Lady Masters said gratefully, as if she were in the habit of cooking her own meals. “I am lunching with Mrs. Cole at Woodside.”

  Mrs. Worthy perceived that she was being made use of. It had been a short service, and Lady Masters had some time to spare; the beauties of Nature, the pleasures of relaxation, were just so much camouflage. Shutting the door on Lady Masters in mid-sentence, she called a final and rather sharp goodbye through the window.

  “Vicar lost his watch?” Major Worthy asked, as she hurried towards him.

  Mrs. Cole’s drawing-room was provided with a useful little window, known as the spyhole, which overlooked the front gate. Through the spyhole Mrs. Cole saw her expected guest approaching at an unexpectedly early hour, and called a warning to Laura. This gave them time to shake up the cushions, collect the scattered pages of the Sunday paper, and hide Mrs. Cole’s darning inside her desk.

  “She’s far too early,” Laura complained. “The food won’t be ready for ages.”

  The door bell trilled through the house. “Sherry,” Mrs. Cole suggested as she went off to answer it. Luckily, it was one of the times when there was sherry available.

  Lady Masters’s acceptance of the invitation had filled Laura with dismay. The embarrassment of meeting her again was aggravated by the fear that she had come on purpose to be reproachful, or contemptuous, or in some other way unpleasant. Though she could hardly believe that Lady Masters would speak openly of the proposal, Laura knew her too well to be able to hope that her anger would not be noticeable. Lady Masters was not a woman who believed in hiding her displeasure; and this meant that Mrs. Cole would see that something was wrong and would be sure to want to know what it was. Laura was very fond of her mother, but she had a horrid conviction that their outlook on life was quite different and that it would be far better for both of them if Mrs. Cole never discovered that her daughter had refused Toby Masters.

  A prey to these disturbing thoughts, she found herself face to face with the dreaded guest. She did not know what to expect, and was almost shocked when Lady Masters greeted her as “Dear Laura�
�� and went on to make bland and cheerful inquiries after her health.

  “Such a pity about Toby,” said Mrs. Cole.

  Lady Masters agreed that it was a pity. But his cold was no better; she had kept him in the house for four days, and this morning she had insisted on a day in bed. It was really the only way to get rid of a bad cold.

  Toby had caught his cold through being out in the rain all day with Manley. This led quite naturally to a discussion of the weather, and on to the beauties of Nature. Toby’s name dropped out of the conversation, but without any obvious pause or any hint that it was a name to be avoided. Lady Masters seemed perfectly at ease, and neither in her greeting nor in her behaviour could Laura detect the smallest alteration.

  The beauties of Nature and the exceptional splendour of this particular Sunday carried them through the sherry. Laura had to leave her mother alone with Lady Masters while she attended to the lunch, but when she came back it was plain that nothing had been said to upset Mrs. Cole. By the time the lunch was eaten, Laura was ready to admit that in one respect at least she had misjudged Toby. By slow degrees, passing from fear to bewilderment, from bewilderment to hope, she arrived at a state of comparative calm in which she could speak quite rationally of the garden and the neighbours.

  Having been brought up on the legend that Toby always told his mother everything, she had not dared to hope that on this occasion he would keep his sorrows to himself. But now the legend receded into a sort of historical perspective; it belonged to the past and could safely be ignored. In proof of this she recalled the various occasions when Toby had openly criticized his mother. In her agitation she had quite forgotten them. She was almost ready to laugh at her unnecessary and ridiculous forebodings, but laughter was kept in its place by a new twinge of remorse when she thought of Toby. She had behaved very badly to poor Toby, and he had repaid her by behaving better than she would ever have believed.