by Roger Bax
“You know I enjoy every minute of it,” said Marion. “It’s been a bit of a rush this week, I admit, with the Women’s Institute outing only just over and the wedding almost on top of us and today’s party sandwiched in between, but after all, we don’t have a centenary in the family every day. Do you think William’s enjoying it?”
“He most certainly is, the spoiled old man!”
Marion gazed with possessive pride in the Ancient’s direction. “Isn’t he magnificent?”
Amy laughed. “You sound like a keeper with a pet lion.”
“Well, I am pleased with him. I’m sure there isn’t another centenarian like him in the country.”
“I dare say not. All the same, I’m glad he’s not my responsibility.”
“He’s no trouble,” Marion said stoutly. “After all, I’ve got Gertie to help me, and Barbara reads to him a good deal. He goes to bed very early, too, so we have long evenings.”
“Does Thomas get on with him any better than he used to?”
“Not really. William’s very naughty—he will tease—but Thomas takes himself so seriously that he does rather invite it. I’m afraid Thomas and I will make a very solemn pair when William’s gone.”
“Oh, William’s probably good for another five years—unless you kill him off with all this excitement, of course. Is he looking forward to the wedding?”
“I suppose he is. He hasn’t said much about it.”
“For that matter,” said Amy, “you haven’t talked about it much yourself.”
Marion’s homely face clouded. “Perhaps that’s because my heart’s not really in it,” she admitted. “I want Barbara to be happy above everything, but I had rather hoped that she’d marry Dennis Gwynn. Do you remember him—the fair-haired boy from Gunter’s Lodge?”
“Of course,” said Amy. “He’s an architect, isn’t he? He’s got a place up in Judiford.”
“That’s right—he’s just gone into partnership. He’s very well thought of, and I’m told he’s quite brilliant at his job. He’s always worshiped Barbara, and she was very good friends with him until Neville came along and swept her off her feet. Dennis is such a steady, reliable boy, and we’ve known him so long that he’s almost like one of the family. It does seem a pity. They could have settled in Judiford in a nice house, and later on they could have brought their children here and filled the place as it used to be filled. Barbara would have had plenty to occupy her until then—look what a lot I find to do. But she doesn’t seem interested in our county affairs any more, and she hasn’t any feeling at all about the family and its position and responsibilities. She was even talking of getting a job in London a little while ago. It would have been so nice if she could have contented herself here and married Dennis.”
“But Marion, dear, you can’t expect to pick Barbara’s husband for her. You Applebys really are the limit.”
“I can’t help my feelings,” said Marion stubbornly. “I shall always think it a pity. Of course, I can understand why Barbara has fallen so madly in love with Neville. He’s self-assured and experienced and he’s been around the world a good deal and probably paints a very exciting picture of it, and she’s had rather a sheltered life. Naturally he appeals to her, especially as he’s so handsome. But she doesn’t really know him. It’s all very romantic, I dare say, but is it sensible? She’s become utterly absorbed in him—I can’t think it’s good for a girl to sink herself so completely in a man she’s known for such a short time. And why should she rush into marriage?—she has plenty of time. I suggested that at least she should wait until she knew him a little better, but she wouldn’t hear of it—she’s quite infatuated.”
“Infatuated?” Amy looked surprised. “Isn’t that rather unkind to the young man? You’ve nothing against him, have you?”
Marion hesitated. “No, I suppose not—not really. It’s just that Barbara seems to have changed so much since she met him—she’s become much more difficult. Ever since she came under Neville’s influence she’s been impatient with us and with all our suggestions. It’s a little hard when we’re all so fond of her, and after all he is a complete stranger. She used never to have any secrets from me, but now she doesn’t tell me anything—I don’t know why, I’m sure.”
“Well,” Amy said reasonably, “she’s hardly likely to open her heart to you if she knows you’d prefer her to be marrying someone else.”
“I’ve never breathed a word of that to her, and I’m sure no one else has.”
“She’s probably sensed what you feel—there’s nothing slow-witted about her.” Amy’s voice softened. “You don’t think perhaps you’re a little jealous? Neville is very attractive, and Barbara obviously can’t think of anyone but him. It’s natural that you should feel hurt, but there it is. You don’t want to let her go, and she knows it, and of course it makes her all the more determined to get away. Now that she’s got a man of her own, to share things with and have fun with—well, of course she’s impatient when you try to fuss over her. Once she’s married, she’ll be all right again. You’ll see.”
“I hope so,” said Marion wistfully. “I do hope so.”
Barbara had spent an ecstatic hour in the library, showing off her wedding presents to the guests. Her fiancé had been with her, urbane and smiling in the background. Now that the stream of curious and admiring visitors had dried up, the two young people had strolled together down the length of the lawn and stopped at the iron kissing gate that led into the churchyard.
Neville gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank heavens that’s over. What an afternoon! Still, I suppose wedding presents have to be paid for like everything else. ‘This way, ladies and gentlemen, to the silver spoons and alarm clocks.’ Phew!”
He slipped an arm around her and bent to kiss her. He was tall and graceful, with an easy debonair manner and a smile that Barbara found irresistible.
She pressed close against him. “Are you finding it a great strain, darling? You behaved beautifully, all the same. I was very pleased with you.” She stood in a glow of happiness, her lips slightly parted, gazing across the russet fields. She also was tall, and the proud lift of her head made her seem taller. She had a pale, high forehead, and dark eyes with a flash in them. Her hair was dark, too, as her father’s had been, but she had the Appleby nose. There had been a time in her teens when that nose had distressed her, but Aunt Amy had reassured her. “One day,” she had said, “a man will tell you that he thinks your nose is beautiful, and then you’ll know that he’s really in love with you.” Barbara smiled to herself now as she thought of it. Aunt Amy had been on the right lines. Neville had at least declared it “patrician”!
From Long Wicklen village, a mile and a half across the fields, a window was reflecting the sun’s rays in a golden square. “Look,” she murmured, “I believe that’s our cottage. You can just see the bridge.” As she gazed at it her thoughts went back to her first meeting with Neville, in the spring. It had been a still March morning, with a softness in the air that made the spirits rise. Neville had been sitting outside the cottage door in the sun, tapping away at a typewriter set on a folding table. One of the dogs had run up the path and started to make a fuss of him, and in the excitement his papers had been scattered. She had called the dog off, and apologized over the low moss-grown wall. He’d come across to talk to her, rather shy but very charming. They’d talked for a long time, leaning against the wall, and they’d got on so well that in the end he’d invited her in to have a quick peep at the cottage. Afterward, she’d walked home in a dream. She’d never imagined it would be so easy to fall in love.
They had soon met again, of course, and again. It had been a wonderful courtship, ardent on his side, passionate on hers. She had liked everything about him—his brown curling hair that blew loosely in the wind, the good tweedy clothes that he wore so comfortably, his imperturbable good humor and faintly mocking manner, the boyish zest with which he sometimes read aloud passages from his store of books describing t
he most complex military tactics, the concentration with which he tinkered with his car or picked out from the ordnance map bits of specially interesting country that they could explore together. Sometimes it had seemed to her that everything was going a bit too smoothly, that he was even taking her for granted. There had been one or two lovers’ tiffs, invariably provoked by her to test affection and for the bliss of ending them. But he had been difficult to upset, riding the brief storms with maddening serenity.
He had done his work mainly at night, and for months hardly a day had passed without her seeing him. In fine weather they had been out-of-doors a great deal, walking or shooting or exploring the Fen waterways in the little rowboat he’d rented with the cottage. Sometimes they’d motored into Newmarket to dine and dance. When courtesy and tact required it, he had accepted invitations to the Farm and survived them with enhanced prestige, at least in Barbara’s eyes. He had all the social graces. It was not Neville’s fault if, on these occasions, she had sometimes felt conscious of her own limited horizons. He had always been modest and reticent about himself and his wide experiences. He had appeared deeply interested in farming, fascinated by the Fens, properly impressed by the heavy social obligations of Marion and Thomas, and suitably deferential to William. They had laughed about it together afterward, and had agreed that what would really be fun would be to sail together a thousand miles up the Amazon.
In all these months there had been only one little cloud, and that had passed quickly. It had been ridiculous of him to be so sensitive about her money—but very sweet. Anyhow, she had soon put a stop to that nonsense, and the idyl had been resumed. Neville had become her life. It was not in her nature to do things by halves, and she had given him all the affection and trust of which she was capable. And now, in thirteen days’ time, they would be married.
Neville broke in on her thoughts. “You do still want to come back to the cottage after the honeymoon, my sweet?”
“Of course, darling. Why not?”
“You may find it a bit squalid after Bermuda.”
“Oh, Neville,” she protested, “it’s not squalid at all. How can you say that?”
“Wait till you see it in winter.”
“I still think it’ll be fun, and there couldn’t be a quieter place for you to write.” She searched his face anxiously. “You’re not serious, are you, darling? I thought we’d agreed on it.”
He gave a slight shrug. “I was only thinking it might be a bit of a bump for you. Still, it’s for you to decide.”
“I have decided. After all, it isn’t as though we’re planning to stay there forever.”
“That’s true. I should think the old boy may pop off at any moment now.”
Barbara looked sharply up at him, as hurt and incredulous as though he had just slapped her face. It was the first time he had said anything that had really jarred on her, and she froze. “You needn’t sound so thrilled at the prospect. I happen to be very fond of William, as you should know by now.”
Neville smiled tolerantly. “Of course, sweetheart, but considering his age it would be absurd for you to sacrifice yourself even for a short time, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“It’s not a sacrifice. William has always been sweet to me, and if I can make his last days happier by staying around for a little while, I’m glad to be able to. You’re being quite horrid, Neville.”
“Darling!” he exclaimed. “I do believe you’re angry.”
“If you really loved me,” Barbara went on, suddenly pale at the thought that they might quarrel in earnest, “you’d know how much this means to me.”
Neville’s smile faded. These Applebys! He hastened to repair the tiny rent in the fabric of their amity. “You’ve got me all wrong, sweetheart—I wasn’t serious. I think the Ancient’s a great old boy, and of course I understand how you feel. I hope he lives for another ten years, and I won’t say another word about the cottage, honestly I won’t. We’ll stay there as long as you want to. There, I can’t say more than that, can I?” He beamed at her, all charm.
“Oh, Neville!” she said, forgiving him at once. “You know I love you more than anything in the world.”
He gathered her in his arms. “I don’t deserve it,” he said huskily. They clung together, until presently they were disturbed by a voice calling from the lawn.
Ten minutes later Barbara picked her way carefully through a rabble of children playing “British Railways” and approached her great-grandfather, who was just coming out of a snooze.
“There’s a reporter to see you, William. From the Judiford Echo.” She gave him a quick inspection. “Oh dear, you’ve got tobacco ash all over your coat. You are untidy.”
He smiled at her, a warm unrepentant smile, and sat still, his big farmer’s hands on his knees, while she operated on his jacket with her handkerchief. The youthful engine and coaches puffed noisily by.
Barbara called out, “Neville, go and ask Gertie to take charge of the kids, will you, there’s an angel. William can’t possibly be interviewed in all this hubbub. Ask her to take them down to the hollow tree and show them the puppies.” Hutton went off obediently to find the maid.
William smoothed his beard. “Have they sent a photographer?” he asked. His voice was strong, and without a quaver.
“Yes, you vain old man!”
He craned his neck. “Where is this reporter fellow? I don’t see him.”
“Don’t be so impatient, darling. Uncle Thomas is talking to him.”
William snorted. “What’s Thomas butting in for? Whose centenary does he think this is?”
“Now, darling, try to behave yourself. They’re just coming.”
William relaxed, and made himself comfortable in his chair. ‘How do I look?” he asked.
Barbara kissed his ear. “You look fine—and not a day over ninety!”
She stood aside as the newspapermen approached. The representative of the Judiford Echo turned out to be a youth named Stubbins with a weak, amiable face and crinkly hair. He had been warned by his news editor that the interview might not be all plain sailing. “You’ll find Appleby an awkward old cuss,” Ryan had said, “but he’s full of color and he’ll probably make some good cracks. Watch for them. You should get a lively couple of columns out of him.”
An inexperienced but conscientious reporter, Mr. Stubbins had taken the precaution, while still in the office, of looking through the pile of cuttings, some of them brown with age, in which William Appleby’s active career had been recorded. He had even brought a few of them with him in case he should be graveled for lack of matter. The headlines alone shed a good deal of light on the old man’s redoubtable personality: “Mr. W. Appleby on His Trip to America. Lecture at Farmers’ Union.” “Burglary at Monks Farm. Mr. W. Appleby Tackles Intruder.” “Mr. W. Appleby Calls Bishop ‘Narrow-minded Bigot.’” “William Appleby Supports Radical Candidate.” “Mr. W. Appleby Says ‘Boers Are Right.’ Ricks Burned at Monks Farm.” “Mr. W. Appleby and Plant Genetics. £10,000 Gift for Research.” “Tractors in East Anglia. Mr. W. Appleby’s Innovation.” “Rationalist Society. Mr. W. Appleby Elected Chairman.” “Mr. W. Appleby on Rural Water Shortage. Says ‘Towns Have Stolen It.’” And so on.
Mr. Stubbins, introduced by Thomas, gave a limp hand to William and murmured his congratulations. Then he licked his pencil and ran his eye thoughtfully over the list of questions which he had compiled from the records of earlier interviews with local centenarians.
“To what,” he asked, “do you attribute your great age, Mr. Appleby?”
“To the passage of time,” replied William promptly. He was pleased by the laughter that greeted the reply, and smiled round at the crowd. He considered making a further pronouncement. When old Mrs. Bottomley, an ardent chapelgoer, had been asked a similar question she had answered, “Temperance in all things,” which had irritated William at the time. With a glance at Thomas he added in a loud voice, “And plenty of beer.”
Thomas gave the rep
orter a prim smile. “My grandfather is joking, of course. He hardly ever touches beer.”
“You mind your own business, Thomas. Just write that down, young man.”
Mr. Stubbins wrote as directed. “So you attribute your longevity to beer?” he said after a moment. He had an unfortunate habit of repetition while collecting his thoughts for the next plunge.
“Yes,” said William firmly.
“I see you still like an occasional smoke, too,” said Mr. Stubbins, his eyes on the protruding cigars.
“I like a frequent smoke,” said William, “but I can’t get it. I’m the victim of domestic tyranny. When I was a small boy, ninety years ago, I smoked brown paper in the lavatory, and now I’m an old man I still have to sneak away.” He smiled at Barbara, who was sitting on the grass beside him. “Don’t I, my darling?”
Barbara shook her head reprovingly. “The truth is that we can’t do anything with him, Mr. Stubbins. Every evening he creeps off to the oak wood or some part of the garden where we can’t see him and puffs away like a chimney.”
“The doctor says it’ll shorten my life,” William cackled.
Mr. Stubbins’s gaze traveled down to the oak wood where a mob of children were enthusing over the puppies. “You still have the use of your legs, then, Mr. Appleby?”
“Of course I have the use of my legs. How do you think I get about—crawl? I’m not a cripple.”
Mr. Stubbins passed on hurriedly. “And what does it feel like, sir, to be a hundred?”
“It’s the ideal age,” pronounced William. “When a man’s a hundred, he can say what he pleases because nobody takes him seriously, and he can do what he likes because nobody can call him to account.” Having delivered himself, he sat back a trifle breathlessly but with a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
