Courts of Idleness

by Dornford Yates

  Through all this matchless beauty passed the five wayfarers, fascinated and, for a little space, speechless, lizards darting at their approach on every sunlit wall, canaries innumerable leaping and singing in the boughs above. It was a royal progress indeed.

  This, then, was Rih. Of a truth the entering in of the island was a thing to remember.

  Suddenly:

  “Listen to the birds,” said Betty, turning to throw a reproving glance in the direction of her spouse. “They aren’t worrying about breakfast.”

  “Rot!” replied that gentleman. “They had theirs at cock-crow.”

  “How d’you know?” said Fay. “I believe they started singing directly they woke up, and it’s all so lovely they haven’t had the heart to stop.”

  The White Hope looked round with a quiet smile.

  “One might almost say ‘Songs without Worms,’” he said.

  Some two hours later Broke and Fairie were leaning upon the rail of the broad verandah, contemplating the bay of Starra, where the liner that had brought them to Rih rode easily, her burnished metal-work gleaming in the sunshine, boats of all shapes and sizes dancing about her great flanks. A slight haze of smoke drifted above her funnels, and, as they stood watching her, the breeze brought the faint sound of three bells to their ears. Half-past nine. Another hour and a half and she would sail.

  “Aha,” said Fairie, tilting his hat over his eyes. “This is what I call good. Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun of Rih.”

  Before his cousin could reply:

  “That’s right,” said the KC, who had come up behind them noiselessly in his rubber-soled shoes. Smilingly he tapped Broke on the shoulder. “Your bruised arms hang up for monuments,” he added, referring to the latter’s recent battery on shipboard. “Or was it the shins that suffered? In that case you must put your feet up.”

  “Yes,” said Fairie. “They’d make rather good monuments, wouldn’t they? Slabs always do.”

  “They’d be up now,” said Broke, ignoring the offensive allusion, “only there don’t seem to be any public chairs. All these are labelled with some visitor’s name, and we’re afraid to sit in them in case the owners turn up.”

  “It’s the custom here to purchase your own chairs on arrival,” explained the lawyer. “When you go, you take them to use on board. As I come every year, mine is kept for me. Are you going down into the town?”

  “We’re only waiting for the girls. I understand the luggage won’t be up before noon, so we may as well move round till it comes.”

  “Then I should get four chairs without delay. Insist upon their being delivered this afternoon. And here come the ladies.”

  Betty and Fay appeared on the verandah.

  “At last,” said Robin. “What have you been doing? Having your hair washed?”

  “No,” said his sister coolly. “We’ve been putting our gloves on.”

  “That admission,” said Robin, “is in the nature of a gratuitous insult.”

  “Come along,” said Fairie, moving towards the lounge. “I ordered a taxi twenty minutes ago.”

  The taxi proved to be a large open touring car, high-powered, too, and driven by a dark-eyed Portuguese, a shy smile on his merry face. He greeted the party with easy politeness, raising his peaked cap. But he could speak no English, so the concierge told him where to go – that was, just down Town, say, to the top of the Avenue Fayal. It seemed that there was a café there, “The Golden Gate” by name. This place was, as it were, the hub of Starra.

  It was a pretty run, some ten minutes long.

  The avenue led from the quay up to a broad place, full of noise and movement, all dazzling in the bright sun. Movement, mark you, not bustle. There is no hastening in Rih. Men go about their business as it were leisure. Often enough it is.

  And there, at the corner of the place and the avenue, stood “The Golden Gate.” In a sense the spot seemed a terminus, a bourn. In London, omnibuses would start from such a place instinctively. There would be no question about it. And we should call the site a circus. But here there were no police and no pavements, and the traffic went as it pleased. Motors and bullock-carts, some occupied, others awaiting that honour and so at rest by the low wall, men all in white, standing in groups, passing the time of day, black-haired girls in coloured stuffs, baskets upon their bare brown arms, lingering as they turned their steps marketwards, dogs asprawl on the cobbles, blinking sleepily in the hot sunshine, and little brown boys everywhere, now scrambling at play, now rushing to press tight-tied posies of wild flowers on such English visitors as passed by – these and their like made up the scene. Up the avenue a string of mules was slowly making its way, the poor beasts grateful for the shade of the tall plane-trees.

  Betty and Fay were out of the car and across the avenue before Bill Fairie had paid the driver.

  “What’s the matter with them?” said that gentleman.

  “Embroidery,” replied his cousin, with a bored air. “I don’t suppose we shall get them away under five pounds.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Bill.

  Together they crossed over, to find the girls excitedly examining large piles of exquisitely worked doilies, while a fat Portuguese stood benignantly by, supervising their inspection and smoking a cigar which was curved like a banana. A comfortable smile of anticipation had already spread over his countenance.

  “More underwear?” said Fairie pleasantly, as they came up. “I thought—”

  “If you don’t go and wait outside, I’ll buy the lot,” said his wife. “Oh, Fay dear, just look at this one.”

  The case seeming hopeless, the men retired to the doorway in some dudgeon. They were, indeed, on the point of crossing over to test the hospitality of “The Golden Gate,” when there appeared two of their late fellow-passengers, who, bound for South Africa, were slowly returning to the quay laden with all manner of purchases and looking rather like free-booters who had had a good morning.

  “Aha,” cried Fairie. “The sack of Starra. Have you put many to the sword?”

  Mrs Merrow laughed.

  “It’s we who’ve been bled,” she cried, “or, rather, Denis. He hadn’t been ashore a quarter of an hour before he’d gone and bought a hundred bananas and a hundred and fifty passion fruit. Says we must have some fruit on board. Of course, everybody thinks we’re victualling the ship.”

  “I’m going to count them on the quay,” said Denis. “That’s why we’re so early.”

  “While I go round with the tambourine?” said his wife. “How much do you think we shall take?”

  “I for one would gladly contribute fourpence,” said Fairie, “for the privilege of watching your husband tell over his fruit amid the plaudits of a helpful crowd. Friend,” he added, turning to the culprit, “you are about to be stung. Of course, they’ll give you short measure, and any idea of reckoning’s out of the question.”

  “Yes,” said Robin. “Each time you got going, some kid’d roll up and badger you to buy his flowers or something, and by the time you’d told him off, you’d have lost your place in the produce.”

  Denis Merrow grinned.

  “Any way,” he said, “we shan’t have scurvy.”

  Fairie and Broke bade them farewell, and stood watching them pass down the avenue towards the sea.

  “Bill,” said a voice.

  They turned to see Betty standing in the doorway of the embroidery store, a delicate doily in either hand.

  “Aren’t these lovely?” she said.

  “Positively breath-removing,” said Fairie.

  “Idiot! The only thing is, I think he’s asking rather a lot. D’you think you could – I mean, I believe one ought to bargain, only I can’t do it.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Fairie. “I know my East. What does the merchant ask?”

  “Two pounds each.”

  In silence Bill took the embroidery and passed into the shop. The others followed a little uneasily and stood hesitatingly in
the background. The stout Portuguese, a fresh cigar in his mouth, was hanging affectionately over his stuffs, carefully restoring order among such as had been inspected by the two girls, Fairie raised his hat. Then:

  “You speak English?” he said.

  “A little,” said the other, raising his hat in return.

  “Right-o,” said Fairie. He held up the doilies. “These aren’t so bad. How much d’you want for them?”

  “Two pounds each,” said the Portuguese.

  Fairie shook his head.

  “You mistake my meaning,” he said. “I’m not asking what you pay for your cigars.”

  “Two pounds each,” said the other.

  Fairie raised his eyebrows.

  “That is too much,” he said coolly. “I’ll give you three-and-sixpence for the two.”

  A perfect shriek of horror and dismay went up from Fay and Betty, while, with a choking sound, the Portuguese leaned forward and snatched his precious embroideries from Fairie’s hand. The next moment the two girls bore down upon the latter and hurried him protesting from the shop. Robin, red with shame, remained behind, fumbling nervously with his cigarette-case, endeavouring to apologize to the indignant shopkeeper and explaining, in his anxiety in bad French, that his friend was not normal and had had sunstroke before.

  Once outside:

  “I was a fool,” said Betty. “I was a fool to ask you. I might have known. Three-and-sixpence! I wonder the man didn’t try and murder you.”

  “My dear,” said her husband, “to the ignorant the haggler’s art seems almost—”

  “Rubbish,” said his wife.

  “You didn’t give me a chance,” said Bill. “I was prepared to go up to two pounds. The beastly things cost him about six shillings each. He probably received them, knowing them to have been stolen.”

  “I wonder you didn’t tell him so,” said Betty.

  Her husband shook his head.

  “No,” he said gravely. “That might have annoyed him.”

  Fay broke into peals of merriment, and Robin emerged from the shop. As he came up:

  “There are your wretched non-skids,” he said, handing a small package to Betty.

  There was something irresistibly ludicrous about his demeanour.

  “Oh, Robin dear,” said Betty, her voice trembling with laughter.

  “I hope the rude man did not overcharge you, brother,” said Fairie.

  “As for you,” said Robin, “you owe me four pounds and your life. Call it four guineas.”

  For a while they wandered about the little town, exploring its winding streets. It was when they were making their way back to the hub of Starra that Fairie stopped suddenly and announced his intention of having his shoes cleaned.

  “Nonsense,” said Betty. “You’ve done enough harm for one day.”

  Critically her husband regarded his brown shoes.

  “They’ve been through it on board,” he said, “and a devilish good greasing is what they want. They’ll never get it at the hotel.”

  He pointed to a tiny frontless shop, little more than a booth, where two chairs were standing upon a dais, the shoeblack’s paraphernalia lying about them. On the threshold was lolling a little Portuguese, his arms folded, expectancy in his dark eyes.

  “I’ll have them done here,” he said. “You go on and pick up a car. I shan’t be five minutes.”

  With that, he entered the shop, ascended the dais, sank into a chair, and lighted a cigarette.

  The others strolled on resignedly.

  Ten minutes later Robin returned to the shop.

  “What on earth–” he began.

  “Hush,” said his cousin. “Not a word. The professor is in his element. Never have I witnessed such shoe-cleaning. When I tell you that he has only just done one—”

  “What!” cried Robin.

  “—to his satisfaction, you will appreciate—”

  “Well, we’re going, and you must come on in another car.”

  “That’s a nice thing to do,” said Bill. “You wait until—”

  “Until we’re fed up,” said Robin. “It’s getting on for eleven now. Will you have finished by lunchtime, or shall we begin? So long.”

  With a sigh Fairie lighted his third cigarette.

  The professor had just smeared his patron’s left shoe with cream for the third time, when a dog’s cry of pain rang out above the slight clamour of the street. A passionate lover of animals, Bill Fairie sat up. Again came the cry. The next instant he was out of the chair. As he stepped on to the pavement, a whirlwind of quick breath and perfume flashed past his face – a girl all in white, going as hard as she could. An instant later Fairie was by her side.

  “Where’s the dog?” he cried.

  “Over there,” she panted, nodding towards the cathedral. “Oh, the brutes!”

  Under the shadow of the great church, close up against its very wall, a poor brown mongrel was shrinking from the attentions of two Portuguese. Whatever it was, the active cruelty had stopped, but the unhappy animal crouched there in obvious dread and terror of its tormentors. It dared not move, for it was in a corner where two walls met. To bolt would have meant to run the gauntlet.

  The two youths were so engrossed in their occupation that Fairie’s hands were upon them before they were aware of his approach. He brought their heads together with a shock that rattled round the open space in which the cathedral stood. The knees of one sagged under him, and he collapsed, holding his head and weeping like a child. The other tottered to the cathedral steps and sat there rocking himself to and fro, clasping his temples.

  The whole affair was over so quickly that, before onlookers had recovered from their surprise, and those who had seen nothing had had time to inquire what was the matter, Fairie had picked up the trembling animal and was walking back with the girl towards “The Golden Gate.”

  “I’m so glad you were here,” she said jerkily, for she was still out of breath. “I couldn’t run properly because of this skirt.”

  “What skirt?” said Fairie, staring. “That is – I mean I thought you went jolly well.”

  With a little laugh the girl put out a slim hand to stroke the mongrel, which was looking up at Fairie with wonder in his brown eyes.

  “Poor old chap,” she said soothingly. “I do hope he isn’t much hurt. You were splendid,” she added; “the noise of their heads coming together made me feel sick.”

  Fairie laughed.

  “It’ll give them something to think about for twenty-four hours,” he said. “Is there much cruelty in Rih?”

  “Practically none. I’ve been here for a month now, and this is the first I’ve seen. You see, the place is so English that the Society’s practically wiped it out.”

  At this moment they were confronted by the professor, who, raising despairing hands, clearly implored his patron to let him complete the cleaning of his left shoe.

  “Ah,” said Bill, “I’d forgotten about my shoes. I was having them cleaned, you know.” He turned to the Portuguese and pointed to the café, sixty paces away. “‘Golden Gate,’” he said. “Bring your cloths along and finish them there.”

  The fellow appeared to understand, and turned again to his tiny shop. Fairie and his companion passed on.

  Five minutes later they might have been seen sitting in wicker chairs outside the house in question, engaged in merry conversation, while their rough-coated protégé stood confidently between them, devouring a large portion of bread and meat. My lady was sipping a lemon squash, while on a table by Fairie’s elbow stood a French vermouth and soda. The latter’s left foot was poised upon the small portable dais peculiar to the shoeblack’s art, once so familiar a sight, and yet to be observed, in the streets of London, and the professor, with the aid of a tin, two bottles, three cloths, and a toothbrush was working upon the leather with renewed energy.

  “Fairly spreading himself, isn’t he?” said Bill, pointing to the cleaner of shoes. “If he rubs it much longer, the leather�
��ll catch fire. I wonder how I’m to pay him. By time or distan – I mean area?”

  “Labour’s cheap in Rih,” said the girl, with a smile. “If you give him sixpence, he’ll probably fall over himself.”

  She was a nice-looking girl, very natural and easy, say, twenty-one years old. Her soft straw hat was shading an eager face. This was distinguished by a pair of magnificent eyes, large, grey and steady, such eyes as, when a man meets them, make him lose the thread of his speech.

  Her white silk shirt became her and might have been cut to show how well her head was set upon her shoulders. Beneath the broad brim of her hat was a promise of sweet-smelling hair, of which her straight, dark eyebrows offered a bewitching earnest. Her scrap of a skirt did her lithe figure full justice, calling up statues of Artemis and proving that there are still limbs to compare with those Praxiteles thought fit to reproduce.

  “Is this your first day?” said the girl. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  Fairie nodded.

  “Arrived with the dawn,” he said. “Breakfasted before you’d had your bath. You’re staying at ‘The Bristol,’ of course?”

  “Naturally. Everyone is. Are you alone?”

  “I have with me three children, two girls and a boy. They’re not mine,” he added hastily. “I’m just looking after them.”

  “Are you?”

  “Well, I was, but they cleared off just now, while I was having my shoes cleaned. I expect they’ll find their way back to the hotel.”

  “Their absence doesn’t seem to worry you.”

  “No,” said Fairie. “Their presence does that.”

  “I believe,” said the girl slowly, “I believe I saw them, just before we met, getting into a car. Was the – er – boy wearing a Zingari tie?”

  Fairie looked at her with a smile.

  “I might have known from your eyes,” he said, “that it was impossible to deceive you.”

  Over the munching mongrel the two became fast friends. It appeared that she was a cousin of Dorothy Lair’s – they had been at school together. The news of the latter’s engagement to ‘Pip’ Marlowe went far to turn the acquaintance into a positive relation.

  “How strange!” said the girl.