Growing Up

by Angela Thirkell

  “You’ll always find that, sir,” said Mr. Hamp, still on his knees. “In the days when gentlemen had gentlemen to look after their clothes proper, sir, you wouldn’t find that. Everything’s altered now.”

  “That’s a nasty bump,” said Sir Harry, who had been staring at the top of Mr. Hamp’s head. “Fall, eh?”

  “No, sir,” said Mr. Hamp. “Mountain battery mule’s off hind-leg, sir.”

  “Lord! I didn’t know we had any of them about here,” said Sir Harry.

  “Mutta Kundra, sir, nineteen-fifteen,” said Mr. Hamp.

  By a delightful coincidence Sir Harry had also been at Mutta Kundra in ’fifteen, so when Lady Waring came back in the black skirt she was surprised to find her husband and her local tailor in animated converse, while Mr. Hamp delicately picked the fluff out of the turn-ups of the General’s trousers.

  “Funny thing, my dear,” said Sir Harry. “Hamp was at Mutta Kundra in ’fifteen. Mustn’t keep you, Hamp, her ladyship is ready.”

  Mr. Hamp, swivelling round on his knees, quickly made the small adjustments necessary and Lady Waring went back to her room to extricate herself from the pin-larded skirt with Selina’s help.

  “Now, Hamp, about this business of the trouser-pends,” said Sir Harry, who hated to leave a job unfinished.

  “Well, it’s this way, sir,” said Mr. Hamp. “A gentleman’s instep is higher than the back of his foot, leastways than the place on the back of his foot that the trouser comes to, if you follow me, so the bottom of the leg has to be graduated like. And that way, with sloping and all, you’ll find you’ll cut into the material something cruel; cut to waste as we say. Besides which it takes a tailor as is a tailor to cut that line. Talk about those ready-made tailors, sir. They haven’t the art. If I’ve cut one pair of trousers, sir, I’ve cut a thousand, and it’s the personality as counts in each. Now, sir, if the Government was to put the Master Tailors in charge of this cloth rationing business, men as do know their job, well, it’ud make a lot of difference, sir, and go a long way towards winning the war. At least that’s my humble opinion.”

  Selina now came in with the skirt which she delivered to Mr. Hamp.

  “Her ladyship’s just going to have her bath, Sir Harry,” she said, “and dinner’s at a quarter past eight I was to say.”

  Sir Harry glanced at the clock, saw he had half an hour to wait, and resigned himself. Mr. Hamp, with the skirt in its winding-sheet looking like a soft mummy, was now preparing to go.

  “Good night, Hamp,” said Sir Harry. “Interesting about those trouser legs. I must get you to give some of mine a press one of these days.”

  “Very pleased to be of any service to you, sir,” said Mr. Hamp, the top of his head going bright purple as he reflected on the glory this connection would shed on him at the Woolpack, many of whose habitués were ex-soldiers. “And if you are speaking to any of those Parliamentary gentlemen, sir, perhaps you’d bear in mind that the master tailors haven’t had a fair deal this war. If a young gentleman as has just got his commission goes to one of these ready-made houses, sir, for establishments I reelly cannot call them, well, he may get rigged out, for tailored is a word I reelly could not use not in this connection, but what will he look like, sir?”

  Sir Harry, rather wishing the fellow would stop talking and go, said he thought a lot of the young officers got their things off the peg.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, the young gentlemen may do so, but that is not the point I wished to make,” said Mr. Hamp. “The point is, have their uniforms that natty look that a gentleman’s uniform had ought to have? I know to my cost, sir,” said Mr. Hamp almost tearfully, “the difficulty there is with the shocking, shoddy suitings we have to use nowadays, but there is always the Cut, sir, and I’ve got a few rolls of pre-war material that it’s a pleasure to get the shears into.”

  There seemed to be no reason why Mr. Hamp should ever stop talking, especially as Sir Harry could not use his orderly-room manner for fear of offending the tailor who spared his wife various tiring journeys to London. He was wondering if he could offer him something to go and buy a drink, or if this would be against the Master Tailors’ code, when Selina came back and by plumping up cushions, emptying ashtrays, and picking up the pins that had fallen from Mr. Hamp’s mouth, managed to create a small whirlwind that enveloped him and drove him out of the room.

  “Talks a lot, that tailor,” said Sir Harry.

  “Oh yes, he does, Sir Harry,” said Selina. “But I’m so sorry for poor Mr. Hamp, Sir Harry. His son was such a pride to him and he can’t get over it.”

  “Killed? Or missing?” said Sir Harry. “Poor fellow.”

  “Oh no, Sir Harry, he’s got a lame leg and he’s in the Home Guard, but he’s taken a very good job in The People’s Tailoring Limited, and poor Mr. Hamp is so upset. He’d set his heart on his son taking over his business,” said Selina, her eyes liquid with sympathy, “and now he says when he dies it’s the end of the firm. It does seem hard, Sir Harry. Excuse me, Sir Harry, it’s the bell.”

  She went out, but Sir Harry had not had time to settle to his newspaper again before she was back.

  “It’s Mr. Margett, Sir Harry, about Private Jenks and poor pussy,” said Selina.

  “Oh, all right, show him in,” said Sir Harry, wishing not for the first time that the war were over and he comfortably installed in his own house with an office to see the outdoor men in; or better still that there had never been a war at all. But such repining was useless, so he got up and braced himself to meet his old keeper.

  Mr. Margett was one of the three families, Margetts, Polletts and Pattens, who were the real life and fibre of that part of the county and had probably been so long before Barsetshire was carved from forests and downs and river valleys. Of old Anglo-Saxon stock they had intermarried as far back as church registers existed, rarely taking wives from among the foreigners, but from time to time allowing a gipsy man who wanted one of their girls to come into the clan. Jasper Margett belonged to this mixed race, his grandmother, half-gipsy by blood, being a witch who lived in Golden Valley towards Skeynes Agnes, and in her younger days had frequently been met as a large black hare. In his youth Jasper had hesitated between poaching and running away to sea. His mother, the witch’s only child, longed passionately for her son to be respectable, perhaps the more because her husband, one of the most accomplished poachers in the district, and the village ne’er-do-weel in his spare time, wished his son to follow his own profession. Young Jasper very naturally wished to disobey the wishes of both parents, and at twelve was well on the way to inheriting the position of ne’er-do-weel which his father had forfeited by falling down the front steps of the Woolpack after closing time and breaking his neck, when Providence intervened in the shape of the head keeper at Beliers Priory who wanted help with the pheasant chicks. As soon as Jasper Margett saw the young birds he knew that no life would be worth living that did not include the handling and rearing of such pleasing objects. He was taken on approval. His hereditary instincts made him as clever and gentle with birds as he was quick with a gun. The head keeper reported favourably to Sir George Waring, father of the present baronet, Jasper was formally engaged, and in time became head-keeper at the Priory, and a silent or acrimonious devotee of the whole family. Harry Waring, then at Oxford, became the chief object of his devotion. Little George Waring had had his first lessons in shooting and fishing from Jasper. Now the under keeper and the other men had gone, but Jasper still kept watch over the woods, a taciturn man, smitten to the heart by the decay of landed estates and game preserving, seeing no possible successor in his craft. The village, which felt kindly towards him, for he had often been lenient to their boys, did a little poaching from time to time to cheer him up, but were grieved to find that he did not respond. When young Alf Margett, brother of Bert Margett the porter at Worsted, home on leave from the tanks, snared six fat rabbits and sold them to the convalescent home at the back door, Jasper merely fought him in the back
yard, knocked him down and took him out to shoot young rooks next day.

  “You’ll never make a poacher nor a fighter, young Alf, nor a shot neither,” were his parting words. “Better stick to them tanks,” a remark which caused Alf to feel small for the first time in his very cocksure life.

  “Well, Jasper, it’s about Matron’s cat, I suppose,” said Sir Harry. “Sit down. Selina, have we any beer? Then bring a bottle, please. You’ll have a glass, Jasper, won’t you? It’s all we can get now. Her ladyship is getting quite a taste for it.”

  Selina brought a tray with bottles and glasses. Jasper lifted his glass, uttered an unprintable toast to the German Chancellor, and drank it at one draught.

  “I’m all with you there,” said Sir Harry. “Have another, and tell me the trouble.”

  By long experience Sir Harry knew that Jasper found it difficult to express himself on most subjects, and particularly difficult when he was in the Priory. The four walls of a room were always a cage to him. His dark eyes glanced restlessly from door to window as if calculating the chances of escape, and he would have found it easier to submit to Red Indian tortures than to say what he had come to say. After drinking the best part of two bottles of beer he so far relaxed his caution as to admit monosyllabically that he had come about the subject he had come about.

  “Selina says Private Jenks thought the cat was a squirrel, and that was why he shot it,” said Sir Harry. “He must be quite a good shot then, if it was dusk. Selina said after tea.”

  Jasper nodded.

  “Why on earth did you let him have a gun?” said Sir Harry. “It isn’t safe to let any of those fellows have guns. You remember those evacuees we had here, and the father that came down to see them and told you a tall story about being a good shot and all he did was to pepper his own children.”

  Jasper was understood to say that it served them right, with a rider to the effect that they were thieving varmints and were well known to eat pheasants’ eggs. “Besides, they weren’t his,” he added after a pause. “They were his wife’s. And the lodger’s.”

  Slightly taken aback by these revelations Sir Harry repeated that it was not safe to let any stray soldier have a gun.

  “Might have been mine in a manner of speaking,” said Jasper, thawing a little, “if I’d a listened to that woman, but I’ve never listened to a woman yet.”

  Sir Harry, ignoring these interesting confessions, repeated that guns must on no account be lent to convalescent soldiers who had probably only shot at fun fairs.

  “Not Tom Jenks,” said Jasper. “Lord Pomfret’s head keeper, that’s his father.”

  “Lord! old Jenks with the broken nose,” said Sir Harry. “I remember old Lord Pomfret telling me his boy was a remarkable shot. Well, well, I must see what I can do. But don’t let young Jenks have a gun anywhere near the house again. I shall have the dickens of a time about it. Selina says Matron is coming over after dinner. By the way, young Jenks seems to have told Selina he’d never shot a squirrel before.”

  “Bit of swank,” said Jasper. “If I’d a listened to women I’d be telling lies. Silleena. It’s a good name for a woman. Silly by name and silly by nature.”

  At this point Lady Waring came in. For her Jasper had an admiration as wife of Sir Harry and as mother of George whom he had taught to shoot and fish, and even as herself, all of which made him tongue-tied in her presence, or ostentatiously gruff, which deceived nobody. Overcome with confusion at his last remark, which Lady Waring must certainly have heard, he sidled his way out of the room against the wall and went away. In the little hall he met Selina.

  “Isn’t it dreadful about Matron’s pussy, Mr. Margett?” said Selina piteously. “And poor Private Jenks too. He is so upset. He was at the back door just now and he was so upset about poor pussy that I gave him a cup of tea, poor boy.”

  Jasper looked darkly at her.

  “If I went about making up to silly women, I’d get cups of tea,” he announced witheringly.

  Selina went back to the kitchen and told the cook that poor Mr. Margett was quite upset and no wonder, a poor little cat that never did anyone any harm and Matron was so upset and poor Private Jenks so upset. Then she dried her eyes and went to tidy Lady Waring’s bedroom.

  Meanwhile the Warings ate their dinner, which was quite a good one but would have been nicer if the telephone had not interrupted so often. Mr. Palmer at Worsted, who refused to dine till half-past eight war or no war, rang up to consult Sir Harry about a case of fowl-stealing that was coming before the magistrates next week. Lady Bond, who to her husband’s great annoyance made him dine at seven on patriotic but unappetizing food, rang up to say she did not think Lady Waring had quite understood the point at issue in that afternoon’s meeting. Mrs. Tebben, who enjoyed her own discomfort and did not notice other people’s, rang up from Lamb’s Piece to tell Lady Waring a delightful dish she had discovered of some left-over fish and some cold potato mashed together with a teaspoon of made mustard and any bits of cold cabbage one had and you could eat it just as it was, cold, for Sunday supper. As an afterthought she said her daughter Margaret Dean had just had another baby, a girl this time, and was doing nicely, and her son Richard was enjoying the Middle East so much and said Cairo was just like Piccadilly, but had not yet had time to go to the Museum. Roddy Wicklow, Lord Pomfret’s agent, rang up to say his leg was still keeping him away from active service and would Sir Harry like the loan of the tractor next week and his wife and both the children were well. Mrs. Brandon, who to everyone’s surprise and most of all to her own, was in charge of the local Land Girls, and doing the job very well in her own peculiar way, rang up from Pomfret Madrigal to ask if Norma Hopkins was giving satisfaction on the farm, and to say that her daughter Delia Grant’s little boy had chicken-pox, but Nannie thank goodness had gone to take charge and was going to bring Delia and little Freddie back to Stories next week, and Delia would work at the W.V.S. while her husband was in Washington.

  And so the county news came filtering in, from one marooned homestead to another. Such was the press of news after seven o’clock that Palmyra (called after Mrs. Palmer) Phipps at the telephone exchange was often able to give a subscriber who couldn’t get through to a friend the exact information she needed.

  The Warings were always glad to hear of their friends and to give help or advice when possible, but they did wish they could eat their dinner in peace. Lady Waring had once suggested that Selina should answer all telephone-calls during dinner and take messages. Sir Harry agreed, though secretly convinced that it would never work. To his wife’s triumph Selina had proved invaluable at the telephone, intelligent, quick and accurate, but when she had received and written down the message, her kind heart nearly always led her to summon her master or mistress because the telephoner sounded so upset, so that in the end it was simpler for one of them to go to the telephone in person.

  “Shall we wait and have our coffee when Matron comes?” said Lady Waring, when they were back in the sitting-room. “It might soften her a little. I mean she can’t kill us if she has eaten our salt.”

  Sir Harry, who wanted his coffee very hot, and directly after his dinner, looked disappointed and said nothing.

  “No, we’ll have it now,” said his wife, ringing.

  “You women never know your own mind for two minutes together,” said Sir Harry kindly.

  His wife smiled at him and said nothing.

  Selina brought the coffee.

  “Anything wrong, Selina?” said Sir Harry, noticing her tearful eyes.

  “Oh yes, Sir Harry, it’s dreadful,” said Selina. “The gentleman said on the radio that there was a big ship sunk and it does seem dreadful.”

  “Why you girls listen to that filthy noise I can’t think,” said Sir Harry, roused upon one of his favourite topics of hate. “Gentleman!”

  “The lady then, Sir Harry,” said Selina, wiping her eyes.

  “It’s not a lady. It’s an announcer,” said Sir Harry. “And whose
ship was sunk, ours or the enemy’s?”

  “I never heard, Sir Harry. The gentleman said it was sunk by an American destroyer, Sir Harry. I was so upset and so was Cook.”

  “Listen, Selina,” said Sir Harry. “The Americans are our allies. Have you got that?”

  “Oh yes, Sir Harry, like the poor French.”

  “Good God!” said Sir Harry. “Oh well, we’ll leave it at that. So if the Americans sink a ship, it’s an enemy ship, and you ought to be glad.”

  “Oh yes, Sir Harry,” said Selina, her tears ceasing by magic, her cheeks dimpling and her hair curling in wilder tendrils than ever. “Cook will be pleased. Oh dear, the coffee will be cold. I’ll bring some fresh in a minute, Sir Harry.”

  Her employers looked at each other in amused resignation.

  “Please, my lady,” said Selina reappearing with the coffee, “it’s Mrs. Phipps. She says could she see you a moment, my lady.”

  “Mrs. Phipps?” said Lady Waring.

  “Yes, my lady. Miss Phipps is on the railway. It’s about her Mrs. Phipps wanted to see you.”

  “I can’t think who it is,” said Lady Waring, “but she had better come in. Do you mind, Harry? No, Matron may be here at any moment. I’ll see Mrs. Phipps in the hall, Selina. Matron will come by the passage door from the house and you can show her straight in. And bring some more coffee when she comes.”

  She went into the hall. Sir Harry, left alone, drank his coffee and wished his wife would spare herself, though this was a thing she had never done since the day he married her more than forty years ago. She had made as happy a home for George as a boy could possibly have. When George was killed she had met the blow with a strength and courage that sustained them both. Between the wars she had seconded him devotedly, ably, in his military life, been liked by all his junior officers and made the best of impressions on his superiors. When he retired to take up the management of his estate she had thrown herself with equal vigour into country life and was liked and trusted by all ranks. And the extraordinary thing, thought Sir Harry admiringly, was that she always looked so handsome and was hardly ever in a hurry. It was pure selfishness, he told himself, to want her to do less and rest more; a wish to have a few peaceful evenings at his own fireside. Then he sighed inwardly and had to admit that he was as busy as she, that he was often out at night and away for days at a time, and that his wife never complained. Well, some day the war would be over and perhaps they would settle down; or perhaps everything would be taken from them and they would be glad to go on living in the servants’ quarters as they were now; and after all, what was it all for? There was no child to inherit; the place would go to a cousin in the Navy, who had spent much of his life out of England. What a weary business it all was, giving one’s best to a place where one’s widow wouldn’t even have the right to live. Still, one could keep the place going, and there was Jasper, and there were old men about the place who had known his father, and young men who looked to Sir Harry to get them out of trouble, and old women who wanted advice about old-age pensions and were afraid to ask at the post office. One must keep going for them.