“It’s a pity,” said Miles, “that my great-great-grandfather had to go and build all this on top of what was already quite a large house.”
“Oh, well, it’s very useful to have a lot of storage room.”
“We’ve certainly got that,” he said. “Even without the attics.”
“Perhaps we shall have a large family,” Laura remarked, her mind directed to this possibility by the sight of an old and exceedingly uncomfortable-looking cradle pushed away among the trunks.
Miles said he did not think they could afford a large family. Was it reasonable, he added, to have a large family simply to fill up the empty rooms at Marly House?
“No, but I expect we should love them for themselves. And they would give us plenty to talk about, which is so important in married life.”
“That sounds like worldly advice from Gillian,” he said. “I can always tell when you’re quoting Gillian. You speak with such confidence.”
Laura laughed and protested that it wasn’t true. “We have quite different ideas about lots of things, and I don’t always think she’s right. Do you know, Miles, I have a fearful feeling that Gil is going to marry Thomas.”
“If I didn’t love you so much the thought of having Thomas Greenley for a brother-in-law would quite discourage me from marrying into the Cole family.”
“How absurd you are. There’s nothing wrong with Thomas really, except that he’s dull. And he can’t help that—”
“And you are about to pity him for it. Very well, my love, I won’t interrupt you. Go on. Say ‘Poor Thomas.’”
“I suppose I deserve to be teased. But I won’t say it. I wasn’t going to. Not poor anybody, ever again.”
Miss Selbourne, who was a light sleeper, hardly needed an alarm clock to tell her it was time to get up. The clock stood by her bed simply as a precaution and she frequently forgot to set it. This morning she woke even earlier than usual, and lay listening to the drip of the rain on the scullery roof. It was disappointing that it should be a wet day, but she comforted herself by saying aloud: “Rain before seven—”
At the appointed hour of half-past six she went downstairs to let out the dogs. The morning was as damp and unpleasant as most winter mornings, the rain had driven under the back door and had also come in at the sitting-room window, which she had forgotten to close, and her thick dressing gown had a frayed hem which threatened to trip her up, but in spite of these annoyances Miss Selbourne moved blithely about her little house, humming a tune which dated from World War I and granting herself the indulgence of a cigarette with her cup of tea.
This was a very special day, she was looking forward to it, and neither rain nor poverty must be allowed to interfere. When she had finished her tea, and had called in the dogs and dried them, she went upstairs to get dressed. On the way to her own room she turned aside and opened the door of the other bedroom, formerly occupied by Miss Garrett. It was really the better room, larger, lighter, without the sloping ceiling which made one half of Miss Selbourne’s own bedroom so dangerous for the unwary.
Mrs. Trimmer had recently given it “a good turn-out,” Miss Selbourne had washed and ironed the curtains, and Jocelyn had repainted the dressing-table and the wardrobe. He had chosen a curiously vivid shade of salmon pink, and since his enthusiasm was greater than his skill there were numerous splashes of pink on the floor and walls, but Miss Selbourne gazed at it with admiration.
Tonight Jocelyn himself would be occupying this room.
On most mornings he got to Bank Cottage about nine o’clock, but today Mrs. Worthy was driving him down and bringing his luggage, so he would be a little later. The dogs got less than their proper attention, they were neither brushed nor exercised, because for once in her life Miss Selbourne was more concerned with the house than with the kennels. She knew that Mrs. Worthy was one of those wonderful women whose houses shine and gleam from constant polishing. Mrs Trimmer had told her this, and Jocelyn had once said that mud-in-the- hall made Aunt Gwennie mad. Miss Selbourne had a horrid fear that Mrs. Worthy might disapprove of Bank Cottage, and that even at this late hour she might change her mind and snatch Jocelyn away.
She dusted everything she could think of, including the banisters as an afterthought; she mopped away the dogs’ foot-marks, and was then forced to shut Agnes and Leo in the kennels to prevent them from making more footmarks; she fetched out Mrs. Trimmer’s tin of polish and attempted to apply it to the hall floor. But the first patch—luckily in a dark corner—produced such a curious sticky surface that she decided it must be the wrong sort of polish. Finally she brewed some coffee and got out the excellent biscuits Jocelyn had made yesterday.
Mrs. Worthy arrived about half-past ten, apologizing profusely for being late. “First it was the laundry and then it was Binkie,” she explained. “Our dog, you know. He wanted to come too, but I did not like to bring him because you have so many dogs of your own. I said to Curtis, ‘Binkie will not be wanted there’—but then we had to catch him. You know how it is.”
Miss Selbourne knew exactly how it was and was delighted to find that Mrs. Worthy was a true dog-lover. Chatting amiably, she led the way into the sitting-room, where she had lit the fire and draped an old linen bedspread over the table to hide the smears.
“Will you get the coffee, Jocelyn?” she asked. “It wants warming up. I left it in the pan.’’ She and Jocelyn had tacitly agreed to say nothing of his talent for cooking, and Mrs. Worthy was quite amazed that he should be trusted to warm up the coffee without supervision.
“I do hope he will be useful to you,” she said, when they were alone. This gave Miss Selbourne her chance to say that, useful as Jocelyn was already, he would be still more useful now that he was living in the house and available for the early morning work. Mrs. Worthy could hardly believe that Jocelyn was at his best in the early morning, but she left Miss Selbourne to find this out for herself. Miss Selbourne’s terms for board and lodging were extremely reasonable, and ever since she had suggested that he should come to live at Bank Cottage, Mrs. Worthy had been looking forward to the day when she and Curtis would be alone again—really alone, without having him coming down late to breakfast and annoying Curtis or taking a bath at midnight and annoying Curtis in a different way. Her only fear was that in a few weeks Miss Selbourne might change her mind and send him back to Tor Quay.
Equally apprehensive, equally determined to say nothing which might bring about a change of mind, the two ladies agreed that Jocelyn was a very nice boy, so simple, so warmhearted, so exceptionally devoted to animals. Mrs. Worthy said it was not his fault that he was not clever; there were other things in the world besides cleverness. Of course, Curtis had been the clever one of the family, but Armitage—Jocelyn’s father—had been very good-natured. Miss Selbourne just stopped herself from saying that Jocelyn was extremely clever when it came to cooking.
Jocelyn returned with the coffee and biscuits. Mrs. Worthy had hardly taken a sip when she remembered that she had some most interesting news.
“The coffee reminded me,” she said, “for I was having coffee yesterday with Clara and Mrs. Trimmer when I heard it. Curtis was out so I said I would go into the kitchen, as Clara has been with me a long time and one likes to be friendly. Well, while we were sitting there I said something about Mrs. Cole, I quite forget what—but something nice, you know, not gossipy—and then Mrs. Trimmer told us . . . what do you think?”
Neither of her listeners was a quick thinker, and she did not give them much time.
“Why, Laura Cole is going to marry Miles Corton!” she exclaimed. “You were out all day yesterday, of course, Jocelyn, but I meant to tell you in the evening. It slipped my mind because of the packing. I told your uncle at lunch, and he quite approves.”
Having enjoyed a happy married life, Mrs. Worthy was always pleased to hear of engagements and weddings, and Laura’s engagement, now that it had the seal of Major Worthy’s approval, seemed to her the most delightful event that had taken place for a long time.
“I believe they have not announced it yet,” she went on. “So you had better keep it to yourselves. But, of course, if Mrs. Trimmer knows about it, it will soon be known everywhere!”
THE END
About The Author
Elizabeth Mary Fair was born in 1908 and brought up in Haigh, a small village in Lancashire, England. There her father was the land agent for Haigh Hall, then occupied by the Earl of Crawford and Balcorres, and there she and her sister were educated by a governess. After her father’s death, in 1934, Miss Fair and her mother and sister removed to a small house with a large garden in the New Forest in Hampshire. From 1939 to 1944, she was an ambulance driver in the Civil Defence Corps, serving at Southampton, England; in 1944 she joined the British Red Cross and went overseas as a Welfare Officer, during which time she served in Belgium, India, and Ceylon.
Miss Fair’s first novel, Bramton Wick, was published in 1952 and received with enthusiastic acclaim as ‘perfect light reading with a dash of lemon in it . . .’ by Time and Tide. Between the years 1953 and 1960, five further novels followed: Landscape in Sunlight, The Native Heath, Seaview House, A Winter Away, and The Mingham Air. All are characterized by their English countryside settings and their shrewd and witty study of human nature.
Elizabeth Fair died in 1997.
By Elizabeth Fair
and available as Furrowed Middlebrow titles
Bramton Wick (1952)
Landscape in Sunlight
(1953, published in the U.S. as All One Summer)
The Native Heath
(1954, published in the U.S. as Julia Comes Home)
Seaview House
(1955, published in the U.S. as A View of the Sea)
A Winter Away (1957)
The Mingham Air (1960)
FURROWED MIDDLEBROW
FM1. A Footman for the Peacock (1940) ... RACHEL FERGUSON
FM2. Evenfield (1942) ... RACHEL FERGUSON
FM3. A Harp in Lowndes Square (1936) ... RACHEL FERGUSON
FM4. A Chelsea Concerto (1959) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM5. The Dancing Bear (1954) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM6. A House on the Rhine (1955) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM7. Thalia (1957) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM8. The Fledgeling (1958) ... FRANCES FAVIELL
FM9. Bewildering Cares (1940) ... WINIFRED PECK
FM10. Tom Tiddler’s Ground (1941) ... URSULA ORANGE
FM11. Begin Again (1936) ... URSULA ORANGE
FM12. Company in the Evening (1944) ... URSULA ORANGE
FM13. The Late Mrs Prioleau (1946) ... MONICA TINDALL
FM14. Bramton Wick (1952) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM15. Landscape in Sunlight (1953) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM16. The Native Heath (1954) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM17. Seaview House (1955) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM18. A Winter Away (1957) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM19. The Mingham Air (1960) ... ELIZABETH FAIR
FM20. The Lark (1922) ... E. NESBIT
Elizabeth Fair
Landscape in Sunlight
At the end of the war, Mrs. Midge stayed on. While the war lasted Mrs. Custance had accepted her as part of the war-effort; it was only in the past year or two that Mrs. Midge had been transferred to the category which Mrs. Custance described as “people we could manage without.”
Elizabeth Fair’s rollicking second novel takes place in Little Mallin, where village life is largely dominated by preparations for the August Festival. Out of such ordinary material Fair weaves a tale of conflict, scheming, misunderstanding—and of course romance.
Among the villagers are a vicar dreaming of ancient Greece; his wife, largely concerned with getting their daughter married off; the melancholic Colonel Ashford; the eccentric Eustace Templer and his nephew; not to mention Mrs. Midge and her delicate son. The author said the novel was meant for people who “prefer not to take life too seriously.” Compton Mackenzie said it was “in the best tradition of English humour.”
Furrowed Middlebrow is delighted to make available, for the first time in over half a century, all six of Elizabeth Fair’s irresistible comedies of domestic life. These new editions all feature an introduction by Elizabeth Crawford.
“Where she breaks with the Thirkell school is in her total absence of sentimentality and her detached and witty observation of her characters.” The Sphere
“A real success … will give pleasure to those for whom Trollope and Jane Austen remain the twin pillars of English fiction.” John O’London’s Weekly
FM15
CHAPTER I
On fine days, at an hour towards evening—which varied, of course, according to the season of the year—the sun reached the little window of the vicar’s study. This window, set rather high in the wall and serving no useful purpose (since the room was adequately lighted by a larger window facing north), had been filled with stained glass by a former vicar of Little Mallin, who fancied himself as an amateur glazier. A local tradition maintained that he had found the glass stored in the crypt of St. Luke’s at Mallinford and had removed it under the very nose of the rector, who was only interested in mediaeval manuscripts; but other people said the vicar had made the glass himself. Red, blue and yellow predominated in the window, which might be regarded as an early example of pointillisme.
To Mr. Custance, the present incumbent, the red, blue and yellow rays which streamed into the room when the sun reached the little window served as a reminder that he had not yet done the dusting. Like theatrical spotlights they illuminated the principal ornaments of his mantelpiece and revealed his own neglect. On this particular evening, the first fine day after a succession of cloudy ones, the dust was very noticeable. In fact the study had not been dusted for some time, for without the sun’s illuminating rays he did not perceive that dusting was necessary.
But though the reminder came late in the day, it was not yet too late. He kept his own duster tucked away in a drawer in his desk, and owing to this precaution no one of his family—or so he believed—knew that he usually dusted his study after tea.
He began with the mantelpiece. The principal ornaments were a glazed earthenware tobacco-jar, a model of the Parthenon carved out of olive-wood, and a small bronze bell hanging in a bamboo frame, and alleged to be a Burmese gong. Behind and among them lay a miscellaneous collection of letters, bills, bits of string and stubby pencils, which he left undisturbed.
The small table by his easy chair and the ink-stained, flat-topped desk received summary treatment, but he lingered over the round table in the middle of the room, for he knew that his wife would look at it if she came in. Its appearance had often caused her to have the whole room ‘turned out’, and his books and papers ruthlessly displaced and rearranged, so that it had taken him a long time to find the ones he needed.
It was partly this dislike of having things disturbed which had made him volunteer to do the dusting himself in this room. But he was also a kindly man, and he regretted the burden of domestic work which fell on his wife and daughter; for the vicarage was large and his stipend small. Had circumstances permitted he would have undertaken other tasks, but as it was he had to confine himself to chopping the kindling and occasional assistance with the washing-up. The work of his parish and his literary labours left him no time to do more.
The round table had now acquired a satisfactory gleam, and Mr. Custance judged that the rest of the room would do very well as it was. He put the duster away and looked at his watch. There was still half an hour to spare before the Literary Institute meeting.
One side of the room was lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, and towards these laden shelves he now advanced, searching his pockets as he went for the envelope on which was written a quotation he wished to verify. The quotation had come into his mind quite suddenly, in the middle of a conversation with Eustace Templer about belts and braces, and Eustace had supplied a pencil, as well as the envelope itself, so that he could write it down.
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br /> Eustace Templer might be eccentric, thought Mr. Custance, but he had a practical side to him too—always had a paper and pencil handy and never minded lending them. It was lucky he had been with Eustace when he thought of the quotation, because if he had not written it down at the time it would have been lost for ever. The human mind, he thought, is a curious thing; for he could clearly remember borrowing the pencil and pressing the envelope against the top bar of the gate while he wrote, but the quotation itself had vanished from his mind as if it had never been there.
It took him a few minutes longer to realize that the envelope had vanished too. Another search of his pockets, a hopeful inspection of all the places he had dusted, a look at the duster itself and the drawer where he kept it (for envelopes and other small objects could play the most curious tricks on Mr. Custance), and he was reduced to standing still and trying to recall his conversation with Eustace Templer. He knew it was no good trying to remember the quotation itself, but if he could reproduce the sentence that had prompted it some hidden association might bring it back to him.
“They’re more comfortable,” Mr. Custance said aloud, speaking his own part in the conversation.
Stooping and slightly bending his knees—for Eustace Templer was a head shorter—and assuming a high-pitched staccato voice, he retorted: “Comfort! If it’s comfort you’re after, why not a siren suit like Churchill? No braces or belts—just a zip!”
“My dear Templer, consider my cloth. What would the Bishop think?” he remonstrated; and then he faltered, for even in his rôle of Eustace Templer it seemed a sort of lèse-majesté to repeat the next part of the conversation. Eustace Templer was no respecter of bishops. But he was approaching the important moment, the keyword was on the tip of his tongue, and after a pause he continued, carefully emphasizing the Templer characteristics to make it clear that this was not his own opinion.
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