‘Yes, do,’ said Agnes plaintively, but without any signs of emotion. ‘Telegrams are always so alarming.’
‘Well, I can tell you it isn’t Robert without opening it,’ said David, ‘because he would break his leg in a cable, not in a telegram. It’s from Mary, to say she arrives at Southbridge at twelve-thirty.’
‘Well, that’s very nice,’ said Lady Emily, who was absentmindedly trying on a pair of long suède gloves. ‘She can help us with Mr Holt at lunch. Your father gets so angry, and though Mr Holt is really a great trouble and so terribly dull and nobody wants him, still, when someone takes the trouble to invite themselves one feels one ought at least to be civil. David, you and John must help your father.’
‘Darling,’ said David, ‘if this Holt is such a crashing bore as you suggest, I think I’d better be out to lunch. Martin and I are going to fetch this Mary Preston, and we could all have lunch somewhere and not come back till he has gone.’
Just then Martin came in.
‘Good morning, Gran,’ he said. ‘David, I’ve been looking for you. Macpherson asked me to tell you he wants the Ford the minute you come back, as he and John have got to go out on estate business.’
‘What a selfish man Macpherson is,’ remarked David without heat. ‘I wanted to take sandwiches and hear the lark so high about me in the sky. Why do people never take sandwiches when they go poetising on hills? Does one have to poetise on an empty stomach?’
‘Well, I couldn’t go sandwiching, anyway,’ said Martin. ‘I have to be back for something.’
‘What have you got important enough to come back for?’ asked David.
‘I’ve got to see the vicar.’
By the way in which his whole family there assembled repeated ‘The vicar!’ one would have thought that Mr Banister was some loathsome speckled disease rather than an old family friend.
‘Are you going to run the Boy Scouts?’ asked David, not quite kindly.
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Or become a Cathedral Alto?’
‘Oh, shut up, David. It’s something private,’ said, Martin, casting an appealing look on his young uncle.
‘David, dear, Martin must of course see the vicar if he wants to,’ said Lady Emily. ‘Mr Banister is always most helpful and Martin couldn’t do better than go to him, whatever it is.’
The implications which Lady Emily put into her last words were so appalling that everyone began to laugh. Agnes said that Mr Banister had read the marriage service quite beautifully at her wedding. A yell from James then drew attention to the fact that Emmy had broken the two recalcitrant pieces of jigsaw. John, getting up in a hurry, dislocated the already finished section. James hit Emmy and Emmy wept aloud.
‘Ring the bell for Nannie, Martin,’ said Agnes, making no kind of attempt to cope with her offspring. ‘They are so tiresome when they don’t agree.’
After a short interval of pandemonium Nannie and Ivy arrived and removed the two elder children. John set himself to repair the damage on the floor, while Martin collected the fragments of Emmy’s pieces.
‘Have you any Seccotine, Gran?’ he asked.
‘Yes, darling, in that red bowl on the bookcase near the fire. Don’t squeeze it too hard, because the end is broken and you never know where it is going to come out.’
‘Well, I must go,’ said David, a little bored by this super-domestic atmosphere. ‘Goodbye, Mother. Twelve o’clock, Martin.’
‘Thank you so much, Martin, for mending James’s jigsaw,’ said Agnes. ‘Emmy is so very silly. Mamma, I must take Clarissa to Nannie now. John, will you be in to lunch?’
‘I expect so. I’ve got to go round with Macpherson at two o’clock. Give Clarissa to me. I’ll take her to Nannie.’
Uncle and niece went off hand in hand.
‘If you’ll ring for Conque, I’ll get up now,’ said Lady Emily to her daughter. ‘But why,’ she added, looking with great surprise at her own hands, ‘why on earth did I put my gloves on?’
‘I can’t think, Mamma,’ said Agnes, ringing the bell.
At twelve o’clock David was heard shouting for Martin. At five minutes past twelve Martin was heard shouting for David. By ten minutes past twelve the two shouters had found each other, got into the Ford and driven off.
‘Can’t I drive?’ asked Martin, as soon as they were out of sight of the house.
‘You can not. We shall have to step on it if we aren’t to keep this Preston affair waiting. Why weren’t you ready at twelve?’
‘I was, but I couldn’t find you anywhere, so I went all round the stables to look for you.’
‘It’s an impossible house to find people in. They ought to block up a few doors and staircases and then there’d be a chance of cornering people. You can drive part of the way back.’
‘David, you are mean.’
‘Not mean, dear nephew, only sensible. If anyone sees you driving in Southbridge they’ll see you aren’t old enough for a licence and haul you up before the beak.’
After this the Ford made so much noise going up hill that conversation became impossible. The road across the hills from Rushwater mounted steadily for three miles, first among beech trees, then through cornland, and at last on to the bare green heights. David put his foot down on the accelerator and thumped the side of the car after the manner of a jockey encouraging his horse with the whip, Martin sang at the top of his voice, conducting himself with both arms. On the lonely heights the horn went mad and emitted a long blast which nothing could stop.
‘Haven’t got time to mend it,’ yelled David.
‘All right,’ yelled Martin, and incorporated the horn into his imaginary orchestra.
At the brow of the hill above Southbridge David pulled up.
‘We can’t go through the town like the Last Judgment,’ he said, poking about among the wiring. ‘The Preston will just have to wait. Blast, I can’t find the thing. I’ll have to cut it and Weston can mend it. Find the pliers, they are somewhere under your seat.’
Having cut the wire, they proceeded more soberly on their journey and were not unduly late at the station. The crowded bank-holiday train had only just pulled in. David parked the car on the far side of the station yard and looked with distaste at the crowd of hikers which the London train had just disgorged.
‘The Esk was swollen sae red and deep, but shoulder to shoulder the braw lads keep,’ he announced to Martin. ‘Tackle them low, my boy, and come on.’
In any other place the sight of two stalwart young men advancing with a gliding step, arms linked like skaters, uttering what they fondly hoped was a college yell, might have attracted attention, but the hikers, many of whom had already struck up folk-songs of whose doubtful meaning they were luckily unaware, took David and Martin for some of themselves. A few gave the Fascist salute, to which David politely made reply, ‘Good morrow, good my lieges,’ while Martin more simply responded, ‘Ave.’ By this means they reached the station entrance in safety and there found Miss Preston and her suitcases.
‘Miss Preston, I presume,’ said David.
‘Yes, I’m Mary Preston. I am so glad you both came through safely. I was afraid you might both be knocked down and trampled on.’
‘I would have been, only my good father Tiber bore bravely up my chin. This,’ he added, introducing Martin, ‘is my father Tiber, Martin Leslie.’
‘How do you do?’ said Miss Preston. ‘And you,’ she said to David, ‘are another Leslie, I suppose.’
‘I am David. Do you mind if we get into the car at once, as my father’s agent is waiting to snatch it the moment we get back.’
Mary’s suitcases were put in the back with Martin, and Mary sat in front with David.
‘You do horn, Martin,’ shouted David over his shoulder.
Martin obligingly made a number of hideous noises, supposed to be a warning to passengers and other vehicles, and presently the town was left behind them and the car breasted the hill. At the top Martin hit his uncle on the back.
‘You said I could drive, David.’
‘All right. Do you mind if we practise the change-over, Miss Preston?’
The change-over was an elaborate system of changing drivers without slowing down to which David and his nephew had devoted much thought. It was designed as a time-saving device in the event of being pursued by Red Indians, Touaregs and other motor bandits. Martin climbed over the back of the front seat and slipped down with a leg on each side of David. He then gripped the wheel with his right hand, while David slithered over his nephew’s left leg and squashed himself into the space between Martin and Mary, keeping his foot on the accelerator. A substitution of Martin’s foot for David’s was effected without mishap, and David removed himself into the back seat.
‘What do you think of it, Miss Preston?’ he inquired.
‘Splendid,’ said Mary. ‘Did you have much trouble in getting it right?’
‘Rather,’ said Martin. ‘We nearly smashed the Ford up twice before we got the technique right. Next holidays we are going to try it on David’s sports car.’
‘Was it you or your brother who invented it?’
‘Who? Oh, David isn’t my brother; he’s my uncle. You can’t judge uncles by appearances.’
‘Then you are Aunt Agnes’s brother,’ said Mary, turning round, ‘and my Uncle David, I suppose.’
‘Good Lord, no,’ said David, much alarmed. ‘At least I’m Agnes’s brother all right, but not an uncle, please. Hi, Martin, horn!’
Martin executed his fantasia on horn noises, which made a couple of women walking along with baskets giggle pityingly at the eccentricities of the gentry.
‘Excuse us, Miss Preston, but we can’t help it. We’re all mad, you know, and Martin is mad.’
‘So am I,’ said Mary, not wishing to be left out of it, ‘but not Miss Preston, please. After all, we are sort of in-laws.’
‘Bricks without straw, bricks without straw, a man may not marry his mother-in-law,’ sang Martin.
‘All right, my boy,’ said David. ‘Change-over again. Macpherson or Father are bound to spot you driving.’
‘Oh, please, not change-over,’ pleaded Mary. ‘My nerves couldn’t bear it. Please stop, Martin, and let David come round in the ordinary way.’
Martin pulled up by a bluebell wood and both young men got out.
‘Bluebells,’ said David, introducing them with a wave of the hand. He leaned over the side of the car looking at Mary.
‘Do you like walking?’ he asked.
‘Love it.’
‘Then we’ll do some walks when I come down for weekends.’
‘Don’t you live here?’
‘No, I live in town mostly, but I’m often down here. Come on, Martin, we’ll be late.’
Martin made his horn noise, doors were slammed and they drove on. After a quarter of a mile they came to the gates of Rushwater House. The drive wound through a large meadow where the hay was not yet cut. Rushwater House came into sight behind the trees in all its complacent ugliness. David drew up under the portico and Gudgeon opened the door.
‘Lunch over, Gudgeon?’ said David.
‘No, sir, luncheon has not yet begun. The car with Mr Holt is not yet here, so her ladyship is waiting.’
‘Right-oh. Oh, Gudgeon, you might let Weston know that the horn died on us this morning, so he’d better fix it up for Mr Macpherson. Come along, Mary, and see Mamma.’
He took Mary’s arm and propelled her into the drawing-room where his mother was sitting at a large table, busily painting her fan.
‘Dear child,’ she exclaimed, opening her arms to Mary in a warm embrace. ‘I am so glad to see you again. Did the boys take care of you?’
‘Yes, thank you, Aunt Emily.’
‘Luckily you have come in time for me to warn you about Mr Holt,’ said Lady Emily. ‘Henry and the children are always so unkind about him, but really he is quite a nice little man and always invites himself.’
Mary was not a little bewildered by the sudden introduction of Mr Holt, and was hoping for more information about him, but her Aunt Agnes took her off to her room and left her to get ready for lunch. When Mary had tidied herself and unpacked a few things she went to the window and kneeling on the window-seat looked out into the park. Her bedroom was at the front of the house, overlooking the great meadow which lay bathed in warmth and peace. After a long London winter it felt like Paradise. Much as she loved her mother, that lady’s half-imaginary maladies were rather wearing. Mary had found some work in a library, more to have a pretext to get away for regular hours than because she actually needed the money, but when Colonel Graham had offered to pay for his sister’s treatment and after-cure at a Swiss clinic, and Providence had provided a friend to go with her, Mary was thoroughly glad to give up her so-called work and go to Rushwater for the summer.
Agnes, whose soft silliness was only equalled by her strong family affections, had not been thinking entirely of her niece when she agreed with her husband that it would be a good thing for Mary to go to Rushwater. She wanted her mother to have a nice girl with her who could help with letters and possibly snatch a little order from the large-hearted chaos which was Lady Emily’s normal life. She also had a mild hope that John might be induced to take an interest in her niece. As Agnes had been happily married for ten years to a man who was worthy of her affection and inordinately proud of her gentle foolishness, she could wish no other good than matrimony to her elder brother. So far her efforts at finding suitable wives for John had met with no success, but all the more did she exert herself. David, she considered, could well look after himself, and was obviously doomed to marry an heiress, but dear John would be a difficulty. If she had realised how very far John was from thinking of a second marriage, she might have given up in despair, if there were room for so definite an emotion in her placid breast. When Gay died after a year of perfect happiness John had tried to make a grave for every memory of that year. But he could not find for them the eternal rest which her spirit had found. It was an unquiet grave where those memories lay. They stirred unbidden and rose sometimes at midnight or at noonday to wring his heart. No ninefold Styx could bind them, no prayers for forgetfulness move them. At every hour he was defenceless against the bitter waters of memory which rose to his lips and chilled his heart. But Agnes, happily ignorant of this, thought that darling John must marry again, some really nice girl, and why not Mary. Robert would be pleased.
Meanwhile Mary, all unconscious of her aunt’s plans and almost of John’s existence, went on looking out of the window and thinking of those two very nice silly Leslie boys. Martin, still at school, was of course really a boy, and David one thought of as a boy to show one’s own womanly superiority. But one also thought of him as a boy rather deliberately, to hide one’s own consciousness of his disturbing presence. He was certainly a person one would like to see a good deal. Not because he was amusing and could drive a car so well, for Mary’s world contained several young men who were excellent amusers and first rate drivers. Probably just because he was David, which was an exciting, a delicious thought.
The noise of a motor woke her from this unmaidenly reverie, and she became conscious of the Leslies’ car coming across the green meadow, containing what was presumably Mr Holt. So she plunged downstairs, getting safely to the drawing-room before Gudgeon announced Mr Holt, my lady.
There emerged from behind Gudgeon’s pontifical form a stout little man in a grey suit, walking delicately on rather pointed brown shoes. His round red face had an air of being imperfectly shaved, or of having some light fungoid growth upon it, his short hair and moustache were grey, he clashed his plump hands across him as he moved. Mr Leslie’s nebulous idea of Mr Holt as a Greville or Creevey was not so far out, though Creevey was really what he would have meant if he had the faintest idea what his own meaning was. Mr Holt was an astounding survival of the hanger-on, although he did not keep a diary. Bred to the law, he had been placed by his father, a county town solicitor in a
small way, in the estate office of a noble lord on whom he had some slight claim. Here young Holt had assiduously studied the art of pleasing his superiors. Realising that he could not get a footing in great houses unless he could prove himself useful or amusing, better to be both, he had early formed his plan of life. To be witty was not in him, but he had a magnetic attraction for gossip. Small talk of every kind flew to him, followed him, came in at his window almost unsought. All that he heard he retained in his excellent and well-trained memory and was able to pour out in the right quarters. At the houses which he sometimes had to visit on business he made himself very entertaining to the magnates, who enjoyed hearing malicious stories about their friends and unwittingly themselves furnished material for Holt’s next visit. Thus he obtained a reputation as an amusing fellow whom you could ask to dinner at a pinch. To get a footing among the wives was more difficult in those late Victorian and Edwardian days. After some thought he decided to enter the charmed world of his ambition by the garden gate. Great ladies were taking up gardening. Mr Holt applied himself to the science, read copiously, neglected no opportunity of picking up information, and in a few years made himself a first-rate authority on shrubs and flowers, from the wild flowers of a particular county of England to the rarest bulbs or slips from the Himalayas or the Andes. By the time his father died, Mr Holt had so well established himself as tame cat, or up-to-date toady, that he was able to give up his legal work and take a modest room in town on what his father left him, counting on his friends for holidays and for fruit and game in season.
To do him justice it must be said that the pursuit which he had taken up as a means to social improvement had finished by winning what heart he had. In spite of his snobbery, his pedantism, his insufferable egotism, a new blossom, a rare bulb would thrill him with a lover’s emotion. As he had no garden of his own there was no fear of his competition. Great ladies rivalled each other in their efforts to get him for weekends, for summer and Easter visits, for Christmas house-parties. Here he moved in complete happiness, amusing such guests as he did not irritate to madness, and making himself really useful in the garden, to the ill-concealed fury of the good Scots head-gardeners.
Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC) Page 4
