by Angus Wilson
A chorus in which Hamish joined with a deafening roar, and even Nan hummed the tune. ‘The Brashers shall serve my will and that of the Bogus-Smiths’ said Hamish ‘They shall be our helots.’ ‘Thus spake Zarathustra’ said Jennie with mock gravity. Hamish began to pull her hat off, and had they not turned into the drive at that moment there would have been another wrestling bout.
They approached a long grey early Victorian house with a veranda and a row of elegant French windows with olive green shutters. ‘Now isn’t it just the ugliest house you’ve ever seen?’ asked Nan. Peter thought it had great charm and said so. ‘Well, yes’ said Nan ‘the children love it and I suppose it is quaint. But think if it was one of those lovely old red brick Queen Anne farmhouses.’ A bent old man in a straw hat was tending a chrysanthemum bed, Jennie began to shout excitedly through the window. ‘Mr Porpentine, darling Mr Porpentine’ she cried. ‘What a curious name’ said Peter, whose mind had indeed begun to wander under the impact of Nan’s chatter. ‘Oh, Peter, darling, really’ said Jennie ‘It isn’t his real name, it’s because he’s so prickly, you know “the fretful porpentine”. Only of course he isn’t really prickly, he’s an old darling.’ Further explanations were cut short by their arrival at the front porch. Nan led the way into a long, high-ceilinged room, into which the sunlight was streaming through the long windows. ‘This is the sitting room’ said Nan ‘it’s in the most terrible mess. But at least it is human, it’s lived in.’ And lived in it clearly was – to an unfamiliar visitor like Peter the room appeared like a chart of some crowded group of islands, deep armchairs and sofas in a faded flowered cretonne stood but a few feet from each other, and where the bewildered navigator might hope to pass between them there was always some table or stool to bar his way. Movement was made the more dangerous because some breakable object was balanced precariously on every available flat surface. There were used plates and unused plates, half finished dishes of sandwiches, half empty cups of coffee, ashtrays standing days deep in cigarette ends; even the family photographs on the mantelpiece seemed to be pushing half finished glasses of beer over the edge. It was impossible to sit down, for the chairs and sofas were filled with books, sewing, workboxes, unfolded newspapers, and in one case a tabby cat and two pairs of plyers. When at last some spaces were cleared the chair springs groaned and creaked beneath the weight of their sitters. Peter sank into a chair of which the springs were broken, hitting the calves of his legs against an unsuspected wooden edge. It was clear that the chairs and sofas were each the favourite of some member of the family, had indeed been over long lived in.
‘My dears’ said Nan ‘I’m ashamed’ and she waved her hand towards a plate of unfinished veal and ham pie that was placed on the ‘poof’. ‘Suicide Sal’s away and we’ve been picnicking.’ ‘Oh I’m so disappointed’ cried Jennie ‘I had so wanted Peter to see Suicide Sal.’ ‘My dear, she’s had another accident.’ ‘Tis Jim Tomlin ’ave got ’er into trouble this time’ said Hamish. ‘They do say she be minded to throw ’erself in pond.’ ‘Oh! Hamish don’t be so dreadful’ said Nan and she began to repeat the story of her servant problems that Peter had heard in the car.
Suddenly the door opened and a little birdlike elderly woman in a neat grey skirt and coat seemed almost to hop into the room. She had a face of faded prettiness with kitten eyes, but at this moment her lips were compressed, her forehead wrinkled, and she was pushing back a wisp of grey hair with a worried gesture. ‘Oh Nan there you are at last’ she said ‘I just can’t get that lemon meringue pie of yours right. The oven won’t come down and I’m sure the wretched thing will burn.’ ‘Flopsy’ cried Jennie and ‘How’s my canary bird?’ said Flopsy as they embraced. ‘Flopsy this is Peter.’ ‘How do you do?’ said Flopsy. ‘You’re taller than I expected and thinner. That young man of yours needs feeding, Jennie. Well. Peter or no Peter he won’t get any dinner tonight if we don’t look after that pie. Come on Nan.’ ‘Happy, darling?’ asked Jennie. Peter was too exhausted to do more than smile, but alone with her he felt he could do so sincerely. ‘Good’ she said, then ‘Where can Daddy be?’ she asked and began to call ‘Dads, Dads, where are you?’
Mr Cockshott was a much smaller man than Peter had expected. Despite his bald head fringed with grey and his grey toothbrush moustache he had a boyish, almost Puckish expression which made him seem younger than his fifty-seven years. He wore an old, shapeless tweed suit with bulging pockets and a neat grey foulard bow tie.
‘Jennie, darling, you’re looking very pretty’ he said, kissing her on the forehead, as she sat on the sofa, and running his hand over her hair. ‘Dads’ said Jennie ‘darling Dads. This is Peter.’ ‘So you’re the brave man who’s had the temerity to take on this little wretch’ said Mr Cockshott. ‘It doesn’t require much courage’ said Peter ‘the reward is so great.’ ‘Good, good’ said Mr Cockshott absently ‘How are things at the Ministry? Humming, I suppose.’ It was the first question about himself that anyone had asked Peter and he was about to answer when Mr Cockshott went on. ‘Of course they are. I never yet heard of a Government Office where things were not humming. Though what they’re humming about is rather a different question, eh? Well, you’ll find things very quiet down here. Not but what there’s not been a deal of trouble about Abbot Gladwin’s yearly returns. These mortmain tenures are liable to cause a rumpus you know’ he said turning to Jennie. ‘It’s not like a simple scutage where the return is a plain per capitem. Between you and me the abbot’s had a lot of trouble with his own tenants. I’m by no means sure that Dame Alice hasn’t suppressed a pig or two and as for Richard the Smith, frankly the man’s a liar.’
‘Darling don’t mystify Peter. He’s talking about his old twelfth century, Peter. Have you had a reply from the Record Office yet, darling?’ ‘Yes,’ said Mr Cockshott ‘Most unsatisfactory. Of course it was a turbulent century, Barrett’ he said to Peter ‘and the turbulence was not without repercussions even in our remote part of the world. For instance I’ve been able to relate the impact of Richard Cœur de Lion’s ransom directly to …’ But there he was interrupted by the return of Nan. ‘For heaven’s sake, Gordon’ she said just look at you. You dreadful, disreputable creature. I appeal to you Peter, doesn’t he look just like the wrong end of a salvage campaign? I just can’t imagine what that starchy Mrs Brasher will say if she sees you.’ ‘If Mrs Brasher does see me, and considering her myopic tendencies I consider that very unlikely, she will undoubtedly, as the current phrase goes, fall for me.’ ‘May be, dear, may be’ said Nan ‘but nevertheless your trousers are going to get a patch in them. Flopsy’ she called ‘Flopsy, bring a needle and help sew up Gordon’s pants.’ ‘Poor Dads!’ said Jennie ‘aren’t you shockingly bullied? Cross my heart, spit on my finger’ she added ‘I’ll never treat my man like this virago’ and she pressed Nan’s elbow tenderly. Peter smiled uneasily and uncrossed his legs. But Mr Cockshott was purring as a buzz of feminine interest surrounded him. ‘I’ll tell you a secret, Barrett’ he said ‘Women are like touchy Collie dogs, they need humouring.’ Peter was about to reply in what he felt to be a suitable man to man vein, when he was startled by finding a large bodkin thrust into his left hand. ‘Hold that’ said Flopsy ‘and don’t sit gaping.’ The kindness that lay behind her gruff voice was almost unbearable. ‘You’ll have to learn to be useful if yon want to earn your bread and butter in this house. No drones here.’ ‘Oh for crying out loud’ said Nan ‘Flopsy you’re scaring the poor boy into fits.’ ‘Peter’s not frightened, are you darling?’ said Jennie. ‘Why it didn’t take him any time to see how much Flopsy’s bark meant.’ Peter laughed and tried to smile at Flopsy. ‘I shan’t eat you up, young man’ she said. But Mr Cockshott was growing restive, his face took on an expression of caricatured thoughtfulness and he bit on his pipe. ‘Of course, I might appear with no trousers at all’ he said ‘Aesthetically I should be perfectly justified, for I still have a very fine leg. Hygienically – well the weather is very warm and trousers are an undesirable encu
mbrance. Socially I make my own laws. I have only one hesitation and that is in the moral sphere. I have no doubt at all that the sight of my splendid limbs would cause Mrs Brasher to become discontented with her own spouse’s spindly shanks; and whilst I have the greatest contempt for that horsetoothed, henpecked gentleman, I have also the highest respect for the institution of marriage. No, I must remain a martyr to the cause of public morality.’ A chorus of laughter greeted this sally and Nan declared he was impossible, whilst Jennie dared him to carry out his threats. ‘Oh, do, Dads, do’ she cried ‘I’d so adore to see Mrs Brasher’s face. Go on, I dare you’, but Dads just shook his head. ‘Flopsy shall make me a kilt in the long winter evenings’ he declared. ‘I’ll make you a bag to put your head in if you don’t stand still while I’m patching you’ said Flopsy, laughing. ‘Heathenish woman, how right they were to give you that outlandish name.’ ‘It’s not an outlandish name’ said Jennie ‘Flopsy’s a lovely name. It comes from the Flopsy Bunnies in Peter Rabbit.’ ‘It does not’ said Hamish, entering the room. ‘It is taken from the immortal English Surrealist Edward Lear and his Mopsikon-Flopsikon bear.’ After what seemed to Peter an age the family were ready to depart, he would not have dared to confess to Jennie his relief as he heard the car disappear down the drive.
Despite all Nan’s apologies that the evening meal was just a picnic, Peter decided that they lived very well; with the combined produce of the garden, neighbouring farms, and American relations it was clear that austerity had not seriously touched them. Sweet corn and tunny fish was followed by roast chicken, and the meal ended with open apple tart and lemon meringue pie. Everybody ate very heartily, whilst deploring the hard times in which they lived. To Mr Cockshott no regime could be called civilized that compelled a discriminating palate to take beer rather than wine with dinner. Hamish was unable to see what else could result from a sentimental system designed to level down. Flopsy suspected that to get decent food it would soon be necessary to descend the mines, where she had no doubt that caviare and foie gras were being consumed hourly. Nan adored the farmhouse simplicity of it all and had always wanted to live on such wholesome fare, but she deplored the disappearance of the old English hospitality which scarcity compelled. Jennie with one eye on Peter remained silent, but in face of such unaccustomed plenty Peter was in no critical mood. Indeed as he sat in an armchair with a cup of Nan’s excellent American coffee and a glass of Cointreau unearthed by Mr Cockshott from his treasure house, he did not even feel alarmed that he had been left alone with Hamish.
For a time there was silence as Hamish looked at the evening paper gloomily, then quite suddenly he said ‘Well we’ve reached the final point of fantasy. Vitiate the minds or what pass for the minds of the people with education, teach them to read and write, feed their imaginations with sexual and criminal fantasies known as films, and then starve them in order to pay for these delightful erotic celluloids. Circenses without panem it seems.’ ‘Yes’ said Peter ‘it’s pretty bad. I don’t suppose anyone would be the worse for the disappearance of a lot of the films we get from America. But you tend to forget perhaps the routine nature of so many jobs to-day, people need recreation and some emotional outlet.’ ‘I don’t accept industrialization as an excuse for anything’ said Hamish. ‘We made the machines, we can get rid of them. People seem to forget that our wills are still free. As to recreation, that died out with village life. I don’t know quite what you mean by emotional outlet, judging by most films I take it you refer to sexual intercourse, there I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that marriage for the purposes of procreation is still quite an intelligent answer. But if you mean the need for something not purely material, some exercise of the sense of awe, you people killed that when you killed churchgoing.’ Peter laughed and denied that he was responsible for the decline in Church congregations. ‘Do you go to church?’ said Hamish. ‘No’ said Peter ‘I suppose I incline to agnosticism in religion.’ ‘You incline to agnosticism’ said Hamish scornfully ‘which means I suppose that you prefer to believe the latest miracle performed by some B.Sc. London to the authority of 2,000 years.’ ‘I don’t think the divergence of science and religion is quite the issue nowadays’ said Peter as calmly as he could manage ‘After all so many modern physicists are by no means hostile to religious belief.’ ‘Very kind of them I’m sure’ said Hamish ‘In any case I was not talking about what the B.B.C. calls “belief in God”, that is not a thing for discussion really. I was talking of churchgoing. The greatest dereliction of duty in an irresponsible age is the failure of the educated and propertied classes to set an example by attending their parish churches.’ ‘You would hardly advocate attendance at church by non-believers.’ ‘My dear fellow’ said Hamish ‘all this talk about belief or non-belief is rather crude. A Roman gentleman might privately be a Stoic or an Epicurean but that didn’t prevent him from performing his duty to his country by sacrificing to the Gods. We have privileges and we must act accordingly by setting an example to our inferiors.’ ‘I think’ said Peter angrily ‘that that view is crazy as well as unchristian.’ ‘Yes’ said Hamish ‘so does the Sunday Express. I think that the only dignified approach to the modern world is to be classed as crazy.’ Further acrimony was prevented by the appearance of Mr Cockshott with some papers and Hamish retired.
‘Where has Jennie gone?’ asked Peter rather restively. ‘In these unhallowed times’ said Mr Cockshott ‘even the fairest of women have to partake in the household duties, in short the women of the house are assisting cook with the washing up.’ ‘But can’t I help?’ asked Peter. ‘Good Heavens, my dear boy. No. Let us retain some of the privileges of our sex. Jennie tells me you have a taste for literature, so I’ve brought you a few occasional writings of mine for a little light bedside reading.’ Peter took the offprints with a sincere interest. ‘I should very much like to read them’ he said. ‘Thank you’ said Mr Cockshott ‘thank you. I project a longer work – a history of North Cambridgeshire which will be at once, I hope, a scholarly account of the changing institutions and a work of literary value and entertainment describing the social scene with its quaint everyday characters and customs. Unfortunately my position as a J.P. and a local landlord, though only of course on a small scale, leaves me less time for writing than I should like. In any case I am not one who is content with information without style. That’s why I’m afraid I quarrel with our good neighbours the Cambridge Fellows. I find most of their painstaking researches quite unreadable, but then I’m neither a pedagogue nor a pedant. On the other hand, though I believe that imagination must infuse the pages of history if they are to live, I could not write what is known as the popular historical biography. I have too much sense of accuracy and too little interest in the seamy side of the past to do that, nor have I the requisite standard of vulgarity in my writing. In fact I’m rather a fish out of water, a fact that is always brought home to me when I attend the meetings of historical or antiquarian societies.’ It seemed to Peter that Mr Cockshott talked for hours about the various quarrels he had engaged in with eminent historians and authors, he began to feel more and more drowsy and the desire to be with Jennie, to touch and feel her became stronger and stronger. At last the door was opened and Nan appeared. ‘Oh I Gordon’ she said ‘look at poor Peter he’s so tired and white. You want to go to bed, don’t you?’ ‘I am rather tired after the journey’ said Peter, but he hastened to add ‘It’s all been awfully interesting and I’m very much looking forward to reading these articles’.
As he walked along the corridor to his room he passed an open door of another bedroom. Inside two figures were locked in each other’s arms. He went quickly and, he hoped, silently past. He told himself that he had always known how tremendously fond Jennie was of her brother, but all the same the droop of her body and the force of Hamish’s embrace troubled him much that night.
Peter sat in a deck chair after breakfast the next morning attempting to read Mr Cockshott’s account of the Black Death in Little Fromling, but he
could not attend to the essay. He felt tired and irritable, for he had slept very poorly. He found himself wondering where Jennie had gone, she had slipped away after breakfast to make the beds, promising to join him in a few minutes, and now nearly an hour had passed. He decided to go and look for her. He found Mr Cockshott in the morning room writing letters. ‘Do you know where Jennie is?’ he asked. ‘Ah where indeed?’ said Mr Cockshott ‘That’s what I’m always asking when she’s here at the weekends. I never seem to see anything of her. We’re all a bit jealous over Jennie. But her independence is part of her charm. She will be free, she won’t be monopolized.’ ‘I had no intention of monopolizing her. I just wanted to talk to her that’s all.’ ‘My dear boy I quite understand your feelings and it’s very naughty of her to have left her guest like this. But we’re rather a crazy family, lacking in the conventions, or rather perhaps I should say we make our own.’ Peter decided to seek her elsewhere. He went upstairs to his bedroom, there he found Flopsy making the bed. ‘You can’t come up to your room now’ said Flopsy. ‘The chambermaid’s at work.’ ‘I was looking for Jennie.’ ‘Well you mustn’t look like an angry dog, you’ll never hold Jennie that way. You like her a lot, don’t you?’ ‘I’m very fond of Jennie’ said Peter ‘very fond indeed.’ ‘Good Heavens I should hope so and more. Any man in his senses would be head over heels about Jennie. But there’ she added ‘I’m partial.’ But she obviously did not think so. ‘If it’s any satisfaction to you’ said Peter savagely ‘I’m in love with Jennie and that’s why I want to see her.’ ‘Good for you’ said Flopsy. ‘But don’t bite my head off. We Cockshotts are a crazy crowd, you know, you can’t drive us. Well, now be off. I must make this bed.’ Peter wandered out into the garden where he found Nan in an old waterproof and a battered felt hat making a bonfire. ‘Have you seen Jennie?’ he asked. ‘Oh Peter’ she said ‘Has she left you on your own? No! that’s too bad. But there you are that’s the Cockshotts all over, they’re completely crazy.’ ‘Don’t you find it rather a strain?’ asked Peter. ‘Maybe at first I did a little, but they’re so natural and simple I love that way of living’ for a moment she looked away from him. ‘They do ask rather a lot from people’ she said, and her voice sounded for the first time sincere. A moment later her blue eyes were looking at him with that frank, open stare which he was beginning to mistrust. ‘It’s not that really, it’s just that they ask a lot of life. You see they’re big people and big people are often kind of strange to understand.’ She laid her hand on Peter’s arm ‘Go see if she’s in the Tree House’ she said. ‘It’s a kind of funny old place she and Hamish made when they were kids and they still love it. It’s down at the end of the garden by the little wood.’
