The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford

by Nancy Mitford

  ‘Don’t tease her,’ said Sally. ‘I think it’s divinely funny; just like those Paris restaurants made for Americans that we saw on our honeymoon.’

  ‘I think it’s very beautiful, Amabelle. I didn’t know so much crooked wood existed in the world. I wonder if it was the architect’s wife who bored all those worm-holes in her spare time instead of knitting jumpers. Oh, I say, too, look at the way the doors open. You just pull that little string and walk in – I do call that a dainty thought. And I adore that ironwork that looks like cardboard meant to look like ironwork; a very original touch that is. Now, I think, if you don’t mind me saying so, that you ought to send up to Soloman’s for some rushes to strew about the floor; then, when you’ve hung a couple of Fortmason hams on to those hooks in the ceiling and dressed all your servants in leathern jerkins, you’ll have arrived at the true atmosphere of Ye. If I think of any other homey touches I’ll let you know. It’s no trouble at all to me.’

  ‘Shut up, Walter, you fool,’ said Sally. ‘Anyhow, I’m sure it’s a very comfortable little house.’

  ‘That’s what everybody says,’ wailed Amabelle. ‘Personally, I could never feel comfortable in a hideous place like this. However, now we’re here I suppose we must make the best of it. Sit down, angels, and you shall have some cocktails in a minute.’

  Presently Walter said: ‘And how d’you think you’ll enjoy life in the country, Amabelle?’

  ‘Well, it will be better now you’ve come, but I can’t describe to you what I’ve suffered so far. Frankly, I doubt whether I shall be impelled to settle down here for good, which was rather my idea in taking this house, although I suppose I shall have to stay on till the end of the lease because of Jerome saying, “I told you so.” The old boy was dead right, just the same.’

  ‘Why, what’s happened? You’ve been bored, I suppose?’

  ‘I’ve nearly gone mad, that’s all. Everything seems to be so queer and awful. To begin with, the lonely wolds I was so excited about are no more wolds than my hat. Ordinary fields full of mud, that’s what they are. And as for their being lonely I never heard such bosh; they are covered with cows and awful staring men in filthy clothes and huge motor things which drive slowly up and down them. And in any case I think it’s dangerous to go out alone here. Only yesterday I came across the bodies of two dear little rabbits which must have been killed by some lynch-maniac. It’s terrifying to think there are such men wandering about. I brought the poor mites home and gave them decent burial in the garden.’

  ‘The lynch-maniac must have been delighted when he came back for his dinner,’ said Sally. She had spent her childhood in the country. Walter remarked that the amount of sadism among the lower classes was truly terrible.

  ‘Now, listen, Sally,’ went on Amabelle. ‘You’ve lived in the country – I want you to tell me what people do all day. I simply can’t find anything to occupy myself with. Your mother, for instance, what does she do?’

  ‘Let me think now. She always seems to be extremely busy. For one thing she grows a lot of bulbs in the winter, in a dark place.’

  ‘Don’t forget to add that they always get immensely tall and thin and finally bend over like croquet hoops,’ said Walter spitefully. He was not devoted to his mother-in-law.

  ‘Be quiet. They are very pretty.’

  ‘But that can’t take up much time,’ said Amabelle. ‘What I want to know is how do people fill all those hours every day; there seem to be twice as many here as there are in London.’

  ‘Mother, of course, takes a lot of exercise, walks and so on. And every morning she puts on a pair of black silk drawers and a sweater and makes indelicate gestures on the lawn. That’s called Building the Body Beautiful. She’s mad about it.’

  ‘And is it really beautiful – her body, I mean?’ Amabelle asked with some show of interest.

  ‘It’s all right, I think. I never really look at it much. Then, of course, she does some gardening.’

  ‘I thought of that myself, but when I got into the garden I couldn’t see anything to do. There were no flowers at all, either, only some dying chrysanthemums.’

  ‘I think flowers are so vulgar,’ said Walter. ‘It sounds a nice garden to me.’

  ‘And she orders the food every morning.’

  ‘Oh, I could never do that, the cook would give notice at once.’

  ‘And she’s district commissioner for the Girl Guides.’

  ‘I can’t quite see myself in khaki shorts,’ said Amabelle. ‘I think I must be resigned to playing the gramophone and gossiping. When Jerome and Bobby arrive there’ll be some bridge for you, Walter. By the way, Major Stanworth is dining here tonight.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A sweet man, one of my neighbours. I met him in a field yesterday opening up a dead ewe to see what she died of. It was very interesting, we made great friends at once. I expect we ought really to go and have our baths; dinner is at eight-thirty.’

  Major Stanworth, whose alien presence that evening Walter and Sally had rather dreaded, turned out to be a charming person. At the beginning of dinner he seemed shy and silent, but Walter presently let loose a perfect flood of conversation by saying: ‘And what was the matter with the dead ewe? I gather you were having an autopsy when Amabelle came along the other day. I hope there was no suspicion of foul play?’

  Major Stanworth shook his head sadly. ‘Nearly as bad, I fear,’ he said; ‘she was suffering from a disease known as the fluke, and once that gets among our sheep it is a knockout blow to us farmers. However, as that is the only case I have had so far I must hope for the best.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know,’ said Walter brightly; ‘fluke and mouth. I’ve heard of that before, but I thought only foxhounds had it.’

  The major looked rather surprised, and was about to speak when Sally said, ‘Don’t pay any attention to Walter, he’s as ignorant as a bat, poor sweet. I remember quite well when one of our farmers at home was nearly ruined by the fluke; it’s a horrible scourge. Something to do with the sheep’s liver, isn’t it?’

  ‘The fluke,’ said Major Stanworth, sipping his sherry, ‘is really a small insect. It has the most curious and interesting life history – I wonder whether you would care to hear it?’

  ‘Indeed we would,’ said Walter enthusiastically. ‘I always think that one half of the world knows too little of how the other half lives.’

  Thus encouraged, Major Stanworth proceeded:

  ‘The fluke begins life as a little worm. It is born into the sheep’s liver and there it reaches maturity, marries, and has an inordinate number of children,’ he paused impressively, ‘totally different from itself.’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Amabelle.

  ‘I don’t think so at all,’ said Sally. ‘Look at Elspeth Paula.’

  ‘These children,’ continued the major, ‘are almost immediately passed out by the sheep and find their way, as soon as may be, into the lung of – the water snail. Here they in their turn marry, reach maturity, and in due course have an inordinate number of children totally different from themselves.’

  ‘What a romance!’ said Walter. ‘And pray where are the next wedding bells to be heard?’

  ‘In the snail’s liver. The children who were born in its lung find their way to the liver, where they reach maturity, marry, and have an inordinate number of children totally different from themselves, who are passed out of the snail, on to a blade of grass, and so back once more into the sheep’s liver.’

  ‘Well, I do call that a tasteful roundelay,’ said Walter.

  Sally choked.

  ‘Have some fish,’ said Amabelle, tactfully changing the subject. ‘It is very good for the brain. I have seen it reported that Lloyd George eats great quantities of fish.’

  ‘No fish, thank you,’ said the major.

  ‘When does your little boy begin his holidays?’ asked Amabelle. Major Stanworth was a widower w
ith an only son. His wife had died the preceding year.

  ‘Comes back tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you go down often and see him at his school?’

  ‘About twice a term, you know. Unsettles the boy if one goes oftener. As a matter of fact I went down last week for the annual sports, and rather a ghastly thing happened. The father of one of the boys died in the fathers’ race – just collapsed, poor chap, and died. We carried him into the gymnasium – he was a stoutish cove, too – but it was no good; he was quite dead before the doctor could get at him even.’

  ‘What an awful thing,’ said Amabelle. She was arriving at an age which no longer regards death as a funny joke.

  ‘At my private,’ said Walter, ‘we had a most handy little cemetery for the fathers, just behind the cricket pav. But of course, we had a fathers’ three-legged race which used to finish them off in shoals. I have even known them die at the prize-giving, from shock, I suppose, if their boys got prizes.’

  ‘Not a bad idea that about the cemetery, what?’ said the major. ‘I always have said “where the oak falls, there let it lie”. This poor bloke was lugged off to Suffolk in a motor hearse, I believe.’

  ‘Why oak, I wonder?’ said Walter. ‘Why not sycamore or monkey puzzle?’

  Amabelle frowned at him and asked Major Stanworth whether he had been hunting that winter.

  ‘I have been, of course, but this beastly foot and mouth has stopped us for the present. However, Lady Bobbin tells me that if there’s no fresh outbreak we should be able to start again in about ten days’ time, she thinks.’

  ‘Is Lady Bobbin a good Master?’

  ‘Foul mouthed, very foul mouthed, you know. Scares all the young ’uns out of their wits, but she’s very good with the farmers, they understand her. Do you hunt, Monteath?’

  ‘I love it,’ said Walter. ‘Unfortunately, I only did it once. Before that I used to write articles in the newspapers saying that it was cruel and ought to be stopped and so on. But when I found out what jolly fun it is I gave that up in no time.’

  ‘Oh, well done, splendid. Still, I mean to say, you couldn’t really call it cruel, now, could you? Ever seen an old dog fox hunted out of covert on a fine sunny morning? Crafty old devil, he enjoys it right enough. I know he does.’

  ‘I’m perfectly certain he doesn’t,’ said Walter. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that I do, so I very soon stopped writing the articles and spent the money I got for them on a pair of topboots. But it was an awful waste really, because since then I’ve never had another opportunity to hunt.’

  ‘Oh, but I call that good! Now, I’ll tell you what, Monteath, as soon as this something foot and mouth has stopped I’ll lend you a horse. Yes, yes, it would be a pleasure – I’ve got more than I can ride myself as it is. And besides that I’ll give you a ride in the point-to-point, if you like.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ said Sally, firmly intervening. ‘I’ve got nicely used to being married to Walter now. There was a time when I thought the only ideal state would be that of widowhood, but now, what with the shortage of marrying men and one thing and another, I’m not at all sure about it. I believe I should miss the old boy a whole heap, you know. Besides, I need a man’s help with the little one. And Walter popped his riding boots last week.’

  The major winked at Walter and announced that he himself was a prominent member of the husbands’ union, and would see fair play. This remark scarcely seemed, in view of his own recent widowhood, to be in the best of taste, and was received in a somewhat embarrassed silence. This he broke himself by asking Amabelle how she had enjoyed her visit to old Mrs Cole that morning.

  ‘Rather moderately, to tell you the truth,’ said Amabelle. ‘She looked so sweet and picturesque in her garden, feeding the chickens, that I simply had to go in; but poor old thing she is filthy, isn’t she? However, that can’t be her fault, because when I asked if I could send her anything from here she said she’d like some soap. So I sent some along at once, and I only hope she uses it.’

  The major began to laugh.

  ‘Are you sure it was soap she asked for?’ he said.

  ‘Quite sure. Yes, of course, what else could it have been?’

  ‘How about soup?’

  ‘Soup? Oh, no, it wasn’t soup; it was soap all right, I’m certain.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong. She asked for soup, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘My dear! I mean my dear Major Stanworth, how awful, I sent soap.’

  ‘Yes, I know you did. And the big joke is that the poor old soul thought that you had sent soup tablets, so she boiled one for her dinner. The story was all round the village this afternoon. Leverett, my cowman, told me.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Amabelle, in tones of deep dismay. ‘Soup! Yes, I see. But I shall have to leave for London at once, shan’t I? I couldn’t stay on here after doing a thing like that. How awful!’

  ‘Now, Mrs Fortescue, don’t you worry about it. I would never have told you, only I thought it was too good a joke for you to miss.’

  ‘I quite agree,’ said Walter.

  ‘Joke!’ cried Amabelle faintly.

  ‘Besides, I’ve fixed it all right for you. I went round to see her and took a couple of rabbits and told her that you were a bit hard of hearing. She was as pleased as Punch.’

  ‘Yes, but the other people in the village must think I’m such a monster.’

  ‘Oh, no, they’re all frightfully pleased. They hate old Granny Coles like fifteen different kinds of hell because in hot weather she uses the village water supply for her garden and nobody else can get any.’

  ‘She certainly doesn’t use it for any other purpose. But it is a bit embarrassing because that’s the second awful thing I’ve done here already.’

  ‘What’s the first?’

  ‘The parson came to call, you see, and asked me if I would give a pound towards the bier – he said they wanted if possible to collect forty pounds for it. I said I would give five pounds, and then I thought it would be polite to take a little interest, so I asked who was going to drink all that beer. What made it worse was that he thought I was trying to be funny, and he was fearfully annoyed.’

  6

  Compton Bobbin is one of those houses which abound in every district of rural England, and whose chief characteristic is that they cannot but give rise, on first sight, to a feeling of depression in any sensitive observer. Nevertheless, a large, square and not unhandsome building, it bears testimony, on closer acquaintance, to the fact that it has in the past been inhabited by persons of taste and culture. But these persons have been so long dead, and the evidences of their existence have been so adequately concealed by the generations which succeeded them, that their former presence in the place is something to be supposed rather than immediately perceived. Supposed, however with some degree of certainty after a sojourn, however short, with their descendants.

  It must have been, for instance, a person of taste who introduced the Chinese Chippendale mirror now hanging where only housemaids can see it in the back passage, the tails and wings of its fantastic birds sadly cracked and broken, victims of the late Sir Hudson Bobbin’s addiction as a child to indoor cricket. For whom, if not for a person of taste, did Fragonard paint those pastorals, now so dirty and neglected as to be little more than squares of blackened canvas, and which must be examined in the strongest light if the grace of their composition is even faintly to emerge? They hang unnoticed in dark corners of a spare dressing-room. Again, whose were the negro slave boys in black and gold wood with which the Bobbin children have for generations terrified a new governess, and who now inhabit the big lumber-room? Whose the Hepplewhite chairs on which the servants place their underclothes at night? Whose the Venetian glass chandelier, ruined by electric wiring carelessly and locally performed, which hangs, draped in dust sheets, in the disused ballroom? Whose the enamelled snuff-boxes, whose the Waterford glass jumbled together wi
th so much horrible junk in glass-fronted cupboards on the landing? And, oh! to whom belonged the Empire crown of blue diamonds and pink pearls, transformed in 1910, the year of her marriage, into the brooch, bracelet and two rings which now adorn the unpleasing bosom, wrist and fingers of Gloria the present Lady Bobbin?

  Persons of taste there have been. The eighteenth-century statue of Apollo, hidden quite by dowdy evergreens; the domed temple on the island in the lake; the lake itself; the rococo bridge whose curious humped shapes are only permitted to appear beneath a tangle of ivy; the walled garden with its Italian gates and sundial; the classical lay-out of trees in the park; all testify to their charming and cultured existence. And after them persons some of whose taste might, not edify perhaps, but at any rate amuse. Those who bought the gay and touching little chintzes, beaded fire-screens, Stafford pottery, Berlin wool-work, gaudy flower paintings, and many strange products of a budding Empire; those who crowned a ram’s head with silver and cairngorms and set it in triumph upon the mahogany sideboard. It is sad that of their possessions only the stuffiest should remain, nothing that might amuse, much that must appal. Stained glass windows, for instance, in each clouded amber pane of which leaps fierily the ruby Bobdgin, that legendary creature half unicorn half jackal from which the family (perhaps) derives its name. The hideous furniture and stuffy curtains in the dining-room, the stamped leather chairs and table in the study, the embossed wallpaper in the passages, and – let us speak of it quickly and never think of it again – the feudal fireplace with its load of heraldry in the hall. These, characteristically enough, remain, suffering in their turn and rendered even more horrible than they would otherwise appear by modern lighting, modern arrangement, and the exile to the boxroom of their jaunty fellows so patently designed to brighten their gloomy aspect.