Marling Hall

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Miss Bunting, ‘but I think you misunderstand. Voilà, messieurs,’ she added, and taking from her bag three small packets of cigarettes handed some Players to the yellow-faced soldier, and to the negro sailors a packet of Three Castles and a packet of Abdullas. The cigarettes were accepted with broad smiles.

  “Aha, mademoiselle parte français,’ said M. Duval. ‘On reconnaît bien à votre accent, mademoiselle, que vous êtes anglaise, mais c’est très bien.’

  Miss Bunting took no notice at all.

  ‘They return to fetch me at five o’clock,’ said M. Duval.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you how sorry we are,’ said Miss Harvey, ‘that we shall be out this afternoon. But Mrs Watson – this is her sister, Miss Marling, and this is Miss Bunting – has asked you to tea and we will drop you there on our way to Norton Park. I am afraid our maid will be out, so could your friends call for you at Marling Hall? Anyone will tell them the way.’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said M. Duval. He gave a few instructions to his friends who got into the car, the yellow-faced soldier at the wheel, and drove off.

  The Harveys and M. Duval went into the house.

  ‘I say, Bunny,’ said Lucy admiringly, ‘how on earth did you know about the cigarettes?’

  ‘Tommies are Tommies all the world over,’ said Miss Bunting. ‘I must see if Mr Hobson can let me have a few more after Boxing Day, for one never knows when they will be useful. Now come along, Lucy. You father and mother will be waiting to drive us up.’

  Christmas was passing off very well on the whole at Marling Hall. The children had all been good. The elder ones had behaved very well at church and were to come down to lunch, which was a goose, as they had had the turkey last night.

  When Oliver and Lettice got back there was a large pile of letters that had come while they were out. Lettice opened hers without much interest. They were nearly all Christmas cards of various degrees of inapplicability, including a half-sheet of paper from a militant-pacifist acquaintance on which was printed in imitation copper-plate, ‘With good wishes for as happy a Christmas as the world will allow and that next year may be less wretched than the last.’ And a few letters from friends. But she did not much care. Last night had not been a great success. David’s proposal, though it had not touched her heart, had not unnaturally disturbed her. It had been impossible to get any talk with Captain Barclay. This morning he had gone off early on business and she did not know when she would see him again. Not that she had anything special to say, but more and more she felt that if he were about there was safety, and some kind of peace. However one couldn’t go running about the country after officers and if one did they wouldn’t be pleased to see one.

  Her depressed reflections were suddenly disturbed by an exclamation from Oliver.

  ‘Lovely, lovely Christmas!’ he said, with what for him was violent excitement. ‘Lettice! My darling Pilman is out of the army and practising in Wimpole Street again. Now I can go and have my eyes mended.’ Lettice at once put her private trouble away, overjoyed that her dear Oliver should have his kind friend and oculist back again. His face looked happier than she had seen it for a long while. She pressed his arm affectionately and took her letters up to her room.

  At lunch the chief topic of conversation was naturally the Harveys and Mrs Smith. Mrs Marling expressed a conventional sorrow on hearing that they were leaving so soon, but this deceived no one. Lettice had had a moment’s anxiety that the loss of Miss Harvey might be a disappointment for Oliver, but as he showed no signs of a broken heart and was rejoicing in the prospect of a couple of days in London with his dear Mr Pilman, she decided that it was all right. So pleased was she to see him content that she forgot for the moment the long, arid road of life that lay before her and quite enjoyed herself.

  A good deal of lunch time was taken up in explaining to Mr Marling exactly what had happened, and he had the great pleasure of telling all his kind informants who were bellowing themselves black in the face that they needn’t shout and he always knew that feller Carver wouldn’t stay the course, so his family left it at that.

  Everyone will be glad to hear that there was a very large plum pudding for which hoarding on an extensive scale had been going on for some months. It was accompanied by rum butter which, as everyone should know, is infinitely superior to brandy butter, as is flaming rum to flaming brandy. Diana and the elder Marling girl each had a sixpence. Unfortunately, the other sacred objects such as imitation silver buttons, rings and hearts were not to be obtained, but a bone button had been provided which fell to Oliver’s share.

  ‘That, I am on the whole relieved to say, is my lot,’ he said to Lettice beside him as he put it on the side of his plate, and Lettice knew that she need have no anxiety about his happiness.

  The elder Master Marling, who had been allowed some rum butter for a great treat, now became extremely boring and boasted how he had drunk half a glass of beer at school when Mr Sawbridge had been called out of the room for a few moments during lunch, assuming on the strength of this the air of a jaded roué or libertine. The little girls showed symptoms of intense admiration.

  ‘That is quite enough, dear,’ said Miss Bunting. ‘We do not wish to hear about bad manners. And the beer nowadays is little more than water.’

  The little girls’ admiration subsided, as did Master Marling, who bore no grudge against Miss Bunting, recognising in her the voice of Authority, which his generation needs and unconsciously misses.

  ‘I had such a pretty Christmas card from the duchess,’ said Miss Bunting, changing the subject. ‘A photograph of Gatherum Castle with the Palliser arms emblazoned beneath it and a kind message from her and the Duke.’

  As no one else had had a ducal Christmas card there was an appreciable pause of respect, broken by Lucy who said,

  ‘I’ll tell you what, I had a marvellous card from Jerry.’

  ‘Who is Jerry?’ said Oliver.

  ‘Oh, you know, Jerry Grant,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s a photo of the Barchester Fire Station and A Merry Xmas written with fire hoses on the top and a fire bucket below and it says Wishing you Buckets of the Best.’

  ‘Very appropriate, dear,’ said Miss Bunting kindly, yet letting Lucy feel that the subject was now closed.

  Presently the children were sent upstairs, and there was some pleasant desultory talk over the debris of lunch and the coffee. Lettice then said she must go down to the stables and write her letters and prepare to receive M. Duval. It was not very amusing to turn out on a dull, cold afternoon, but she had promised, and there it was.

  By half-past three the day was so depressing that Lettice decided to black out and pretend it was tea time, so when M. Duval was set down at the stables by the Harveys he came into a room full of warmth and soft light.

  ‘But you are altogether well housed,’ he said to Lettice in French. ‘Allow that I congratulate you on your apartment. All is in the best taste. One might almost figure to oneself that one was in an apartment in Paris. You will remark that I say almost, for there is a something in the French taste which one does not find elsewhere. As for the English taste, it may be well enough in affairs of sport, but in the interior —’

  M. Duval made that very unpleasant sound, dear to so many sons of Gallia and the Low Countries, a sound of contempt for which the nearest and very vulgar English equivalent is the raspberry.

  Lettice said, also in her best French, that she was glad he liked her flat and she hoped he was enjoying himself in England.

  ‘Quant à cela,’ said M. Duval, ‘je vais d’abord vous parler un peu de moi, pour vous expliquer ma personalité. Je dois vous dire, en premier lieu, que j’ai très mauvais caractère.’

  He wagged a forefinger at Lettice, pregnant with meaning, though what the meaning was she did not exactly know, so she offered him a cigarette.

  M. Duval said he did not smoke. It was not, he added, that he despised the good things of this world, far from it; but he was by nature an ascetic an
d was able at any moment to deny himself anything without in the least feeling the deprivation. ‘Tenez, je vais vous raconter,’ he said, and embarked upon a very long, dull story of renunciation. He had, he said, in his youth, a sufficiently gay youth, par exemple, but madame knew what young men were and he would say no more, been a great smoker. Thirty, forty cigarettes a day had been as nothing to him. One day it had occurred to him to test his character. ‘Par suite de certains évènements, dont je désire que vous ne me demandiez pas une explication, le sujet m’étant assez pénible en ce qu’il s’agit de ma mère,’ he said to Lettice, who did not in the least wish to ask any questions, he had decided that on a certain day he would cease smoking altogether for six weeks. He paused oratorically.

  ‘And did you?’ said Lettice.

  M. Duval asked her to pardon him, but that was not the question. The question, he said, was, whether his character, le Moi, would benefit or not by such an act. A character like his own, he said, and went on saying it for nearly ten minutes.

  ‘That is very interesting,’ said Lettice. ‘And now I will get you some tea. You must be quite ready for it.’

  M. Duval thanked her, but said he never drank tea, except, he added, under certain conditions which he would limit himself to precising in the fewest words possible. As the words seemed to take an unconscionable time, Lettice plugged in the electric kettle, made the tea and offered him a cup.

  ‘Pour vous faire du plaisir, je ne dirai pas non,’ said M. Duval, although he added, it was entirely against his habits. Habits, he said, were a sign of the inner self. A man of his character, for example, would form habits quite other than those which a man, he would not say of inferior character, but of a different type of character would form. He paused for a moment in his analysis.

  Lettice said she hoped he was having a happy Christmas.

  M. Duval most regrettably repeated the raspberry noise. Christmas, he said, was well enough for the devoted. For himself, philosopher and sincere unbeliever, for unbelief, he added, had its saints and martyrs as well as belief, the rite of Christmas was of a nullity complete. It said nothing to him in the end. As for priests, he continued, and sketching again the raspberry noise, one knew what to think of those there.

  Lettice said that the vicar at Marling Melicent was very nice.

  ‘The good vicar of madame’s parish,’ said M. Duval, twisting his mouth, but to Lettice’s great relief not repeating the noise, was doubtless a brave homme, but undoubtedly an adorer of fétiches. For a man with a character like his own, said M. Duval, all religion was fetishism, whatever the creed. He had, he said, studied profoundly during a youth, d’ailleurs orageuse, the question of religion and had decided that for a man of his temperament it was but mummery. ‘Quant aux femmes, je ne dis pas,’ said M. Duval with wide tolerance, ‘c’est convenable. Un point c’est tout.’ But, he continued, it was impossible for him, given the character that he possessed, to be impressed by it. He would explain to her, he went on – but Lettice told Oliver afterwards that at this point she thought she became insensible.

  The afternoon at Marling Hall passed like any other Christmas afternoon. Everyone felt full and sleepy. Mr Marling retired to his study where he could doze at his ease, while the rest of the party sat in the large drawing-room and thought they ought to go for a walk. Lucy, after yawning violently, said she must go and ring Jerry up. Presently the noise of the side door being banged and a car being started was heard, and secure from being told what, the family relapsed into coma once more. Finally Mrs Bill, who felt a certain proprietary right in Christmas procedure, dragged her husband out of his torpor and told him to go for a walk. Bill said he would go if Oliver came too.

  ‘We might go and look at Govern’s cottage,’ said Oliver. ‘There seems to be some talk of his marrying again and, if so, that wall behind the copper must be repaired. It really ought to have been done before the winter.’

  Bill, who took the deepest interest in estate matters on his too infrequent visits, agreed, and asked who the lucky woman was. Oliver said the Harveys’ maid.

  ‘And talking of this and that, Bill,’ he said. ‘You owe me five shillings.’

  ‘I never refused to pay a just debt,’ said Bill, ‘but why?’

  ‘Wasn’t there a bet about Geoffrey and Mrs Smith?’ said Oliver. ‘I know it is unchivalrous to introduce any allusion to the fair sex, but I do want my money.’

  ‘If it weren’t Christmas Day and the pubs opening the Lord knows when,’ said Bill, ‘we’d go and celebrate on the five shillings.’

  ‘On my five shillings, you mean,’ said Oliver. ‘Hand it over.’

  The brothers went out of the room hitting each other amicably.

  Mrs Bill then said didn’t the Mater think they ought to be starting, as the Christmas tea for the school children was at four. Mrs Marling who disliked the name Mater as much as her husband disliked Pater, agreed that they ought to be starting and the two ladies went upstairs to get ready. Presently the noise of the side door being shut was heard again and Miss Bunting gave herself up to the pleasures of a comfortable chair, a good fire and her own company. All so far had gone as she and Miss Merriman had foreseen. Lettice and David: it would never have done: and it was not to be. She had not communicated with Miss Merriman, she did not intend to communicate with her. She knew, and accepted the knowledge without attempting to account for it, that Miss Merriman would, by her peculiar gifts as a guardian of her employers, understand perfectly that any danger of a marriage between David and Lettice was over. She did not think David would have told Miss Merriman, she did not think he would even have told his mother; and she knew with absolute certitude that though Lady Emily might not suspect and would just think David had lost interest as he so often did, Miss Merriman would know exactly what had happened. Neither she nor Miss Merriman would rejoice. In these august matters there is no rejoicing as there is no regret. Fate, immutable, star-decreed, had taken its appointed course and the two priestesses knew that they were justified in their faith.

  Rapt in these high musings she must have dozed a little, for when she returned to earth she found Captain Barclay in front of her.

  ‘I do hope I didn’t disturb you,’ said Captain Barclay, ‘but I found I could get back after all, and I couldn’t find anyone except Mr Marling and he is asleep.’

  Miss Bunting said they had all gone out and Lettice was at the stables, but would be back after tea.

  ‘Stop and have a cup with me,’ she said. ‘I will ring for it now.’

  Captain Barclay, seeing no way of refusing without discourtesy, thanked her and sat down. Miss Bunting, who had never been afraid of servants, pressed the bell and ordered China tea for herself and Captain Barclay. The maid set a small table in front of her and went away. Miss Bunting meanwhile conducted a rather one-sided conversation with her guest. That he did not answer, or if he did, in an absent way unlike his usual good manners, did not at all discompose her. She could not know that Captain Barclay was thinking, and had been thinking ever since the previous evening, about the enigmatic message from David faithfully delivered to him by Lucy when they had put the presents into Diana’s stocking, but her special sense of what the right people were about told her that all was going well. The maid came back, and just as she had set the tray down the front doorbell rang.

  ‘It can’t be a friend,’ said Miss Bunting as the maid left the room. ‘They all know that we use the side door. Milk and no sugar for you, I think, Captain Barclay.’

  Captain Barclay said how kind of her to remember, to which Miss Bunting replied that in her young days a hostess always took pains to remember her guests’ tastes and that the marchioness knew exactly how the wife of each of the marquess’s principal tenants liked her tea. The maid returned.

  ‘Please miss,’ she said, ‘it’s some French gentlemen. At least that’s what they said they were, but two of them’s black, and they said they wanted Mrs Watson.’

  ‘Those,’ said Miss Bunting to C
aptain Barclay, ‘must be the Free French who called at the Harveys’ this morning. They brought Mlle Duchaux’s nephew with them and Lettice is very kindly having him to tea as the Harveys had to go to Norton Park.’

  Captain Barclay got up.

  ‘— so perhaps, Captain Barclay, you would be good enough to show them the way down,’ said Miss Bunting.

  In so ordinary a voice did she say it that Captain Barclay merely thought she wished him to explain to the visitors the route to the stables and went out to the front door. In the hall he hesitated for a moment, then put on his overcoat, picked up his cap, gloves and stick and shut the front door behind him. The noise reached Miss Bunting, who poured herself a cup of tea, and sat sipping it with great relish. The maid said, Should she put the scones down near the fire to keep hot, so Miss Bunting let her do it, but she knew that never would those scones be eaten by Captain Barclay.

  Captain Barclay, greeting the visitors in passable French, offered to show them the way to Mrs Watson’s. Just as he was going to get into the car, another car came up and seeing the unaccustomed sight of people at the front door stopped to investigate. Lucy and an officer got out.