Music at Long Verney

by Sylvia Townsend Warner

  Never, Mr Edom had confided in those happier days when he had an assistant fit to be confided in, never forget yourself and begin cherishing. When a dealer has taken all proper precautions, the obligation towards his stock in trade is at an end. If he begins cherishing, he exchanges the detachment of those who sell antiques for the torments of those who collect them. Every night will be charged with fire, flood, housebreakers, and acts of God. Every lorry going down the street will be headed for his windows. All persons who enter his shop will do so as potential destroyers – oafs who stub out cigarettes in Sheraton inlay, epileptics whose fits hurl them through a Chinese screen. His oldest, most esteemed customers will become swine bearing away pearls, while as for children – King Herod was a Dr Barnardo compared with how he will feel about children. In short, if he is going to begin cherishing, he might as well become a mother and have done with it. But now maternity in its extremest form had seized on Mr Edom. The wrongs done to that defenceless English china had exposed his sensibility, which, since the china had never been his to sell, was unarmoured by professional detachment. Then onto the surface of this pure and abstract grief had crashed the image of Miss Hartley’s hammer, poised above his own wares – the Pinxton “estate” dessert service, each piece painted with a different view of a gentlemen’s park; the Meissen laundress, with her turned-up nose and delicately reddened elbows; the pair of Derby vases and the Nymphenburg cat. If he had refrained from cherishing them before, he made up for it now.

  He must . . . He would . . . His thoughts rushed scrabbling from one expedient to another. He must get her out of the place, instantly. That was imperative. But on what pretext? One can’t, in these organised days, say to a young woman “Go!” and be sure she will comply. She might raise objections, stand on her rights. And if she didn’t, and went, she would go as a raging Fury and as a raging Fury return. No! The obvious, sensible thing to do, the thing everyone does in such cases, was to call in the police. A strong plain clothes policeman, stationed in the shop . . . But in these intellectualised days, police are not the docile public servants they used to be. They form theories, they want to get to the bottom of it, they know all about perversions, fixations, and complexes. If he were to say to a policeman, “I suspect she steals,” since she demonstrably wasn’t stealing he would lay himself open to a charge of slander. If he said, “She means to break my best china and stick it on a drainpipe,” the policeman with the evidential drainpipe before his eyes would know a fixation when he saw one, would know that what was required was not a policeman but an alienist. Besides, a strong plain clothes policeman, strolling among the Galleries’ antiques as though among wedding presents, would have a ruinous effect on business – quite apart from breakages.

  A number of clocks, striking more or less at the same time, because Mr Edom made a point of keeping his clocks in working order, announced that it was six.

  “Well, Miss Hartley, closing time again. What an evening! I hope you brought your mackintosh.” They were the first words he had spoken to her since his discovery of her intentions, and they sounded remarkably false.

  “Always prepared, Mr Edom.” She put it on. She took up her handbag, in which she would conceal the hammer. “Shall I set the alarm?”

  So she meant to come back that very night, did she? “No, don’t trouble. I shall be staying a little longer. I’ll see to it when I leave. Good night, Miss Hartley.”

  “Good night, Mr Edom. Oh, by the way.” She turned back. “The person who brought the English mosaic – called Turnbull – will be coming in about midday tomorrow.”

  She had blushed. For all her effrontery, with that “by the way” which preluded the person who had brought the English mosaic, she had blushed; the consciousness of her vile purpose had reddened her face.

  “I’ll be here.”

  If the person called Turnbull had been coming in a little before sunrise, Mr Edom would have been there – on guard. When Miss Hartley’s footsteps had died out, Mr Edom rang up his housekeeper, saying that there was such a press of business that he proposed to work all night. He would be much obliged if she would bring him some sandwiches, a bottle of his usual claret, his razor, and a large thermos of black coffee. She was to come in a taxi. She came, having on her own initiative added a travelling rug, a clean shirt, a toothbrush, and, in addition to the grouse sandwiches for his supper, some egg sandwiches, in case he felt like making an early breakfast. She offered no comment on his intention of working all night, and this allayed any lurking notion that he might be behaving a little oddly. He settled himself in his private room, shaded the reading lamp so that no chink of light should disclose his presence, and switched on the electric fire. As he uncorked the claret, he realised that he was quite fervently hoping that Miss Hartley would not break in on his seclusion. If she did – well, he would be ready for her. Meanwhile, here was the Decline and Fall – a handsome edition in nine volumes, bound in tree calf, with the bookplate of someone called Humphrey Tilbury. Mr Edom had kept it in his private room for years, going on with it at intervals.

  The clocks striking one alarmed him by their brevity. More time had gone by than he had realised. Perhaps at this moment Miss Hartley was rolling her drainpipe through the silent streets. He sat up a little straighter and lit a cigarette. It was really quite absurd to suppose that she would break in, bringing a drainpipe. His brain must have been heated for such an idea to be entertained for a moment. Besides, she would also need bitumen – not an easy stuff to come by after closing hours. She would just come with a hammer. She might not even come with a hammer; she could come with a sack . . . The smooth, plump, calming hand of Edward Gibbon was already laid on Mr Edom’s brow. He read on, page after page. He began to take a rational view, to reject phantasmagorias, to put, with system, first things first. If Miss Hartley did not break in (and by 3:30 a.m. it had begun to seem unlikely that she was going to), she would reappear with her usual punctuality at nine-thirty. He would then, swiftly and surely, have to get rid of her – but as an employer, not as a murderer. He would have to ask her to leave, and forthwith. For if he had to endure her for another day, he would be driven to violent means. “Miss Hartley, I must ask you to leave at once.” Difficult words to speak out loud and bold. Inevitably, they would antagonise her; and that was the last thing he wished to do. For if she had really toyed with the vile intentions he had attributed to her (Gibbon was now well in the ascendant), antagonising her would stir it all up again. He must have some pretext, something inoffensive and irrefutable. It was a pity he had finished the black coffee; it would have helped him to think. Byron could think on soda water, but Byron was an exceptional character. There was a decent remnant of claret, but he would need that for breakfast; even Byron (a hero to Mr Edom) would not have concluded a night-long vigil by drinking soda water with egg sandwiches . . . There must be some pretext. Funerals are threadbare; one cannot plead a funeral. In any case, to say “Miss Hartley, I am going to a funeral; you must leave” would provoke the retort that his absence at a funeral would be the very reason she must remain to look after the shop; and in no time he would find himself departing for a mock funeral, leaving her alone to muse on grievance and revenge. Weddings, baptisms, the confirmation of a nephew were no better. Chimneys on fire . . . compulsive warnings in a dream . . . drains – No, drains would be fatal! Taking her out for the day – no real answer there. Exposure to smallpox – that might do. But suppose she was a Christian Scientist? As the light of dawn stole into the room, mental exhaustion compelled Mr Edom to shave, to brush his teeth, to put on the clean shirt. This made him feel so much livelier that as he poured out his breakfast claret he broke into song:

  “Wine can clear

  The vapours of despair . . .”

  et cetera. Wine and egg sandwiches – he saw with pleasure that there were a great many – would prompt him to a solution.

  He was on the trail of a splendid solution when he fell asleep.

  The burglar alarm went off. Sh
e had come, she was trying to break in! Stumbling to his senses, he realised that it was broad day, that she had come at her usual time, found the door locked, and was waiting outside.

  “Good morning, Miss Hartley. I am so sorry to keep you on the doorstep. I somehow forgot to turn off the alarm. The fact is, a great deal has been happening since I saw you last. I have had to make a great many decisions. I find I must go to Constantinople. Yes, to Constantinople. At once. I can’t go into it all; there isn’t time. I don’t know how long I shall be away, but it will be a matter of some weeks. So for the time being I am closing the Galleries. Which means, of course, that I shan’t require your services any longer. I shall close the Galleries at midday, so you are free to go immediately, the moment I have made out your cheque. I shall include next week, of course, and your travelling expenses.”

  As he spoke, he watched her expression. It was one of frustration. There could be no doubt of her intentions, no doubt at all. Yet as he watched he saw her expression change. A sudden gleam, as though of relief, of renewed purpose, of complacency even, transformed her whole appearance. Good God, had she already thought of a way round?

  The door had opened and a burly young man had come in. “Good morning,” he said, addressing himself to Miss Hartley. “Hope I’m not too early. What’s the verdict?” There was a burnish on his familiarity that suggested the familiarity was of recent date.

  “No, Mr Turnbull, never too early. Mr Edom, this is Mr Turnbull, who brought in the English mosaic.”

  “And a load and a half it was, too. It about did for the springs of my old bus. I hope I shan’t have to take it away.”

  “It’s an interesting piece,” said Mr Edom. “Of course, there’s no market for English mosaic yet. One might say its hour has not yet struck. But it’s an interesting piece. Is it a family possession?”

  “Good Lord, no! No, I brought it here to oblige a friend. He was left it by a great-uncle, who set no end of store by it, because it was made by some ancestor or other. Quite a romantic story. His fiancée died.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes. The ancestor’s, I mean. And he put up a monument to her in the garden. This was part of it – this and another like it, but that somehow got mislaid in a move. The rest of the monument was falling down by then. It must have been quite a lifework – stuck all over with fancy pebbles, and shells, and bits of coloured glass, and his fiancée’s name picked out in glass marbles: ‘Eliza.’ It’s surprising what love will make a man do,” he added, turning to Miss Hartley.

  “Not nowadays,” she said, and flicked her eyelashes at him.

  “Wait till you know.”

  She bridled, and Mr Turnbull increasingly smiled, and moved nearer.

  Mr Edom coughed. “As I was saying, it’s an interesting piece. I wonder your friend doesn’t want to keep it, since it has associations.”

  “Not he! He’s a bit of a Socialist. Eliza and the Honourable Vavasour – did you ever hear such a name? – don’t appeal to him. Nor any other bygones. He’s modern. Now, I’m different.” Again he turned to Miss Hartley. “I rather like a genuine antique. They’ve got something.”

  “Ten pounds,” said Mr Edom.

  The enormity of such an offer distracted Miss Hartley from her own business to his. Incredulity, followed by contempt; contempt melting into gratification – she must have hated him intensely, to draw such pleasure from seeing him make a fool of himself.

  “I should have thought it was worth more than that,” said Mr Turnbull.

  “No – but I’ll make it guineas, as I’m buying it as a present. For you, Miss Hartley,” said Mr Edom, bowing. “A parting present, a little souvenir. I’m sure you’ll find it interesting.”

  Struggling with convulsive yawns, he tried to seem attentive to Miss Hartley’s inattentive thanks and her hopes he would enjoy himself in Constantinople.

  “Yes,” concurred Mr Edom. “Constantinople. I believe it is a very interesting city. Very historical. Would you like me to have your mosaic sent up to London after you?”

  Mr Turnbull, who had finished putting away his ten guineas, now looked up alertly. “What, are you going to London? Why don’t I drive you? I was thinking of going there myself – as it happens.”

  “You’ll have to wait while I pack, you know,” said Miss Hartley.

  “That’s all right by me. I’ve got nothing special to do. I don’t mind when I start.”

  With these gracious words, Mr Turnbull shouldered the drainpipe. Miss Hartley followed him. Mr Edom held open the door. They drove off, Mr Turnbull rather flushed, Miss Hartley lofty and urbane, waving her hand in farewell. They took with them the bright relics of a forgotten craftsmanship, a vanished elegance, a very different outlook on love.

  The Candles

  IT WAS WEATHER to be expected in January. The wind had backed from southerly to due east, turning the drizzling rain to sleet, then to snow. During the morning, only three people visited the Abbey Antique Galleries. Two came, hopefully but vainly, to try to sell Christmas presents they didn’t want. The third was a dealer, who eventually decided not to buy a Sheffield candelabrum. All three quoted the proverb that as the days lengthen, the cold strengthens, and observed that there were a lot of colds about. Mr Edom said to his assistant, Mr Collins, whom he now from ripening esteem as often as not addressed as George, that they might as well shut up and go home for the afternoon. Mr Collins thought not. His turn of mind inclined him to believe that it is darkest before dawn and that it was out of a snowstorm that some stranger was likeliest to walk in with a musical snuffbox. The lid would fly open, the tiny bird would open its beak, fill the air with a brief ecstasy of song, and vanish again, the lid falling after it with a faultless snap; the stranger would remark that his great-aunt had had quite a lot of such oddities – he set no store by them himself. Mr Collins did not go into all this, but got his way by saying submissively that, if Mr Edom did not object, he himself would come back in the afternoon, just in case. Mr Edom then said very well, but in that case they would close from one to two, and George must come and lunch with him at the Abbey Grill.

  The force of the wind hurried them down the street under a darkening sky. More snow was imminent. Before they had finished their meal, people were crowding in, badged with snow and talking in loud voices, as people do who come indoors after contending with rough weather. Mr Edom said they would wait for the worst to go over, and ordered two glasses of port.

  Against the wind, they struggled back through a scene that was unrecognisably hushed, unrecognisably noisy. One or two cars with their headlights on groped by; others were at a standstill. The air resounded with rattles and jangles and the screeching of overhead wires. They entered the shop, and it was as if they had never felt warmth before. When Mr Edom had recovered his breath, he said conversationally, “Well, that was quite disagreeable.” This came out pretty much as he intended, but even so, his teeth chattered and he felt an inclination to hold on to the nearest solid piece of furniture. Mr Collins stood by the door and dripped.

  There were times – this was one of them – when Mr Edom could have wished his assistant hadn’t got such long legs. When long legs are not actively engaged, they give an impression of standing about – which doesn’t do. Still less does it do if they attract attention by rushing about on impulses of helpfulness and good will. In the antique trade, one should aim at being functional: an existence aloofly yet watchfully there, ready to come forward if required, meanwhile in reserve, partially obscured by a bonheur-du-jour, perhaps, or looking out of the window; but always unobtrusive as an angler, with legs fading into the landscape until called for, and with good will – if that article cannot be discarded – directed impersonally towards men but never to particular customers. Customers don’t like good will; it makes them feel inferior. Similarly, it does not do to look pleased when something has been sold. It is for the customer to look pleased; the vendor’s part is to acquiesce – as with cheeks and kisses. But for all that,
George, smiling like a Cheshire cat and with his good will constantly needing to be checked with a “Down, Ponto!”, was no fool; and when it came to handling things he was as deft and reliable as a retriever dog.

  While these thoughts were going through his mind, Mr Edom, though he did not know it, was also smiling – not because of the mitigating merits of his assistant but because his feet were beginning to get warm. They seemed to be doing so at a distance and independently of him, but the development pleased him – as though they were beings far removed and no real relations of his, yet he felt a disinterested satisfaction at their well-being.

  “Beginning to thaw, George?” he inquired.

  Before Mr Collins could reply, the lights went out. In the houses opposite, the lights had also gone out. Only the two electric fires retained a fading glare. While Mr Edom was still finding words to say what he thought of the Electricity Board, Mr Collins struggled into his wet overcoat and rushed from the shop.

  Mr Edom wrapped himself in a tiger skin and sat down in the bergère to conserve his vital heat – what there was of it. The glow faded from his feet as it had done from the two electric heaters. He wished he had not decided against oil heating. He wished his assistant had not gone mad. Dementia seemed a kinder supposition than heartless desertion: one should not think the worst of a man until one is categorically forced to. The room seemed to congeal about him like black ice. The wind kept up a steady screech. Looking out of his darkened box at the darkened housefronts opposite, he watched the driven snow horizontally twirling past, like the ghost of an unending rope. He rearranged the tiger skin, which was a poor fit. It was all very well to be charitable and suppose that Collins had gone mad, but it couldn’t stop there: madness involves more than charitable suppositions. Someone would have to bear witness as to when he went mad, and how, and if he had previously shown signs of doing so. As a first step, he would have to telephone the police. At the thought of squandering his last illusion of keeping warm, Mr Edom groaned. He began to founder in the cold of the room, the black ice was closing over his head, when the room became immeasurably colder. Mr Collins had come in. His expression was elated; he positively appeared to glow. (Madmen, Mr Edom had read, are often insensible to extremes of heat or cold; they live by the raging of their blood.) Under each arm he held a parcel.