Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘Oh, I’m very sorry, but I couldn’t possibly,’ said Mary. ‘I don’t mind playing, because no one listens to me, but I couldn’t stand on the platform. Oh, please not.’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to see what we can do. Maybe I’ll sing myself. Time now, Miss Mary.’

  The concert proceeded through its interminable length. The singers never had a second copy of their music, and if they did not know it by heart, looked over Mary’s shoulder and sang down her neck. The postmaster gave a comic reading in stage Scotch which produced roars of enthusiasm. Gudgeon arrived with his song. He was as unruffled on the platform as he was at the dinner table.

  ‘I am well acquainted with both music and words of my item, miss,’ he said to Mary in a conspiratorial aside, ‘so shall leave the music with you. Be kind enough to follow me and all will go well. I shall return to the piano to turn for you myself.’

  He then took up his position on the platform. While he was acknowledging the applause which greeted him, Mary was able to cast her eye over his song. It was a Victorian relic called ‘The Body in the Bag’. Its theme was the adventures of a gentleman who sought to dispose of a tomcat which had died in his establishment. While playing the opening bars, which consisted of two or three chords with the written instruction ‘ad lib till ready’, Mary glanced ahead and was smitten with horror. The song would obviously be a popular success, but what would Aunt Emily and Aunt Agnes think? However, it wasn’t her fault, so she steeled herself to go through with it. The accompaniment being written for the class of accompanist who acquires his technique through a popular manual called Vamping in Six Lessons, she was able to give her almost undivided attention to Gudgeon’s rendering. It was that of a master. Every word was clear, every point was not only made but underlined, and his gracious waits for laughter made it impossible for his audience to miss a word. During the chorus which followed each verse, Gudgeon had to imitate a trombone, which he did with great skill, joined in ever-increasing numbers by his hearers. True to his word he came and turned over for Mary in every verse, in spite of her whispered hint that she knew it by heart now. Two verses before the end he paused dramatically.

  ‘Kindly continue the ad lib till I recommence, miss,’ he said to Mary. Then, advancing to the edge of the platform, he addressed Lady Emily in a respectful but penetrating voice.

  ‘I thought you might like to know, my lady, that there are only two verses more to come, and these contain what we may call the crux of the item.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Gudgeon,’ said her ladyship. ‘Oh, and Gudgeon, did you think of seeing that Mr Leslie’s other shoes were sent to be mended? Not the other ones, you know, but the other ones.’

  ‘Yes, my lady. Walter took them over to Southbridge on his bike this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Gudgeon.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady. Now, miss, if you will so kind,’ he added, turning to Mary.

  The crux of the song, to use Gudgeon’s unimpeachable phraseology, was that after the cat’s body in a sack had been left on doorsteps, dropped into rivers, thrust up chimneys, and always returned, the owner went back with it in despair, only to discover when he opened the sack at home that he had been mistaken about his cat and there were seven little bodies in the bag.

  ‘There was I with the bodies in the bag, the bodies in the bag, ta-RA-ra,’ sang Gudgeon triumphantly. Such of the audience as were not singing in the chorus explained to each other that it was ‘bodies’ this time, not ‘body’, so that by the time the applause died down there was hardly a single member of the audience who did not clearly understand what it was he or she had been laughing at.

  The items that followed were commonplace in comparison. While the postmaster’s daughter was delivering herself of a monologue, Mr Macpherson came up to Mary in the little space beside the platform.

  ‘It’s going on well,’ he observed, ‘but I wish I had put Gudgeon at the end. It would have been a fine wind-up. I doubt if his dignity would have stood for it though,’ he said, chuckling. ‘Well, Miss Mary, there’s but the one more song. Just keep your seat at the piano and as I said, I’ll maybe give them “The Wooing O’t” myself.’

  The monologue and the following song were disposed of. Mary sat idly at the piano, wondering what sort of a voice Mr Macpherson had, when the agent walked up to the front of the platform.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘our last item is unfortunately cancelled, as the gentleman is at present in bed with the face-ache. I had thought of singing to you myself, but I doubt if you’d have stood it. I now have much pleasure in announcing that a young gentleman from London will oblige with a song.’

  The applause was deafening as the newcomer mounted the stage and, putting a piece of music on the stand, said to Mary:

  ‘Can you play this?’

  ‘David!”

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, David!’

  ‘Oh, Mary,’ he mocked. ‘Look, love, can you read this thing?’

  ‘No, no, I couldn’t possibly,’ she said, quickly getting up. Probably she couldn’t. The newest jazz hit isn’t in everyone’s technique. And even if you had the jazz gift, which you know you haven’t, how could you play with your fingers trembling and your eyes feeling as if they must be crossed with the violence and suddenness of your emotions?

  ‘No, I didn’t suppose you could,’ said David. ‘I only got it by post from America this morning. I can hardly play it myself. However, we’ll give it a try. Get another chair and you can turn over for me.’

  Mary obediently fetched a stool from the back of the platform, where the seats provided for the Cheerio Trio (a revolting combination of clarionet, violin and female cello, with whose performance Mary had hardly been able to keep slowness, if one may coin such a phrase to express the opposite of keeping pace) had been piled. David pulled the piano further towards the front of the stage, slewed his chair round, and plunged into fireworks of finger-work, singing all the time in a heartrending voice. For Mary, there was the pleasure of leaning across him two or three times to turn over.

  Nothing could have pleased the audience more than Mr David’s unexpected appearance and his crooning voice. Shrieks, stamps, whistles and yells called for an encore.

  ‘No more. Not a drop,’ shouted David, blowing kisses to everybody.

  Mr Macpherson, who had an eye on the time, had the curtains closed, and the audience simmered down.

  ‘That was a grand song, David,’ he said. ‘You were a good lad to come. But why didn’t you let us know?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he went back to the hall to superintend the placing of the trestle tables and the unpacking of sandwiches, cakes and beer, while Mrs Siddon looked after the large tea urns.

  The Leslie family and Mary walked back to the house. The rain had stopped. David gave his mother his arm, while Agnes, Mary and Mr Leslie walked behind. Mr Leslie was loud in his praise of Mary’s kindness and skill.

  ‘Played like a Paderooski,’ he said. ‘Success of the evening. Good girl.’

  ‘Thanks awfully, Mr Leslie, but really Gudgeon was the success.’

  ‘Oh, Gudgeon. “The Body in the Bag”. Ought to have warned you: he sings that song every year. Hope you didn’t find it a bit shocking, eh?’

  There was hot soup and an informal supper in the dining-room. Mary, happening to come in last, saw that the only empty place was between David and his father. In front of the plate was something large, wrapped in tissue paper, tied with a huge bow of ribbon.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked as she sat down. ‘Not a present for me?’

  ‘Open it,’ said David.

  She untied the ribbon and loosened the paper. Inside was a large basket of tiny strawberries.

  ‘Oh, David! Wild strawberries.’

  ‘Are you pleased?’

  ‘Oh, David! How too heavenly.’

  ‘They are to make up for forgetting the other day.’

  ‘Oh, David, did you really think of that?’
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  ‘Of course I did,’ said David, honestly believing what he said for the moment. ‘I was no end of a brute to forget my promise the other day.’

  It certainly was worth seeing Mary look so pleased and so pretty as she shared her strawberries. David had been lunching that day with Joan Stevenson at the same restaurant, and had been reminded by the proprietor that wild strawberries could still be got. This again reminded him of John’s suggestion, so on the spur of the moment he ordered a basket to be sent to his flat and decided to run down to Rushworth with it. When he arrived the whole party were at the concert, so he told the under-footman, who was temporarily in charge, to put the basket on the supper-table, went over to the racquet-court and, as we have seen, made his appearance just at the right moment.

  ‘Excuse my not being dressed, Mother,’ he said. ‘I motored down and I am famished. I didn’t have any dinner. Did I miss a lot of good stuff at the concert?’

  David is hungry because he went without dinner to bring me strawberries, thought Mary. A thought that wrung one’s heart, yet how pleasantly.

  ‘Gudgeon was in great form,’ said Mr Leslie. ‘“The Body in the Bag”, as usual. Good song, that.’

  ‘It seems too sad about all those kittens,’ said Agnes plaintively. ‘He really ought to have noticed that it wasn’t a Tom. I mean, days beforehand you can see the poor creature is going to have kittens. Darling Clarissa is going to have a kitten this winter for her very own. It will be too sweet.’

  ‘Darling Agnes, there is no one like you in the world,’ said David, admiringly.

  ‘Well, I expect you will all be glad to get to bed,’ said Lady Emily, who had managed to trail a purple chiffon scarf through her soup and was washing it in a wineglass. ‘Gudgeon’s song is too delicious and so was yours, David. You must sing it to us tomorrow night.’

  ‘Sorry, Mother, I shan’t be here. I’m rushing off at cockcrow tomorrow. I only came down for fun.’

  ‘Oh, very well, darling. Agnes, give me my stick. This wet weather doesn’t help my stupid knee. Blow out the candles, David. Most of the servants are over at the racquet-court, and I told the others they could go to bed.’

  Escorted by her husband and daughter, she limped from the room. Mary and David blew out the candles and went towards the door.

  ‘Did you really like the strawberries?’

  ‘Oh, David, I adored them. But I wish you hadn’t gone without dinner.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said David, who having eaten what amounted to a hearty meal at a cocktail party from six to half past, quite honestly meant what he said.

  ‘I was so unhappy when I thought you had forgotten,’ said Mary, unable to resist the temptation to prolong this pleasant moment.

  ‘My poor child, what a rotter you must think me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t. I think you are—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Rather David-ish, I suppose.’

  If David slid his arm round one in the half-light of the doorway, if one burrowed one’s face for a moment into his collar, that didn’t count as kissing. Of course it didn’t, thought Mary, indignantly, while undressing. Kissing is rather horrid, she thought, with memories of film stars, their lips glued dispassionately together. But just to be near a person for a moment and feel his cheek against your hair is quite, quite different. In fact I wouldn’t mind who knew, she told herself, loftily and untruthfully.

  In due time Lady Emily redeemed the promise she thought she might have given, and asked the dull Lady Norton, Mr Holt’s friend, to lunch. Lady Norton was indeed almost duller than is humanly possible, but she really loved flowers. She and Lady Emily spent some of the afternoon in the garden, exchanging names of flowers and promises of bulbs and seedlings. Mr Banister, who came in to tea, was admitted as a fellow-gardener on the strength of some seeds which he had once brought back from the Holy Land. He was afraid that Lady Norton would inquire further about the seeds which, either because he had lost them, or because he had planted them at the wrong season, he never could remember which, had not come up. But Lady Norton was so anxious to tell him how she and Lord Norton had once intended to visit Jerusalem at Easter, but had been unable to do so because of a General Election, that the subject of seeds was dropped, much to Mr Banister’s relief.

  ‘May I stay and have a little talk with you, Lady Emily?’ he asked, when Lady Norton had taken her depressing leave.

  ‘Yes, do, Mr Banister. Mary, did I promise to go over to Norton Manor one day?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Emily. You really did ask her to let you come because you wanted to see her poppies.’

  ‘Did I? Well, I suppose I did. Agnes, what is one to do when people are as dull as that? But she really understands gardens and is going to give me some seedlings.’

  ‘That will be lovely, Mother. Only you know Brown will be offended. He minds things very much.’

  ‘The concert was a great success,’ said Mr Banister. ‘I am sure we are all more than grateful to Miss Preston. And David coming down like that was great luck. He gave us just the right spirit. And he gave me some good news which he may have mentioned to you.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Agnes. ‘What was it?’

  ‘He really is a kind-hearted boy,’ said the vicar. ‘I happened to mention to him – you will remember, Miss Preston, you were there at the time, when I was mending my bicycle in the front garden – I mentioned to him that my tenants would be glad of a suitable paying-guest who wanted to study French. As Martin will not be sleeping at the vicarage they will have a bedroom to spare.’

  ‘How will they do that?’ inquired Lady Emily with great interest. ‘You have only five bedrooms at the vicarage and there are five of them, I understand. Will you have enough beds? I could always lend you one, and there is Clarissa’s cot that she grew out of last year, and it is in perfectly good condition except that the moth got into the blankets. But, after all, a larger one folded would do just as well. Agnes, remind me to speak to Siddon about it.’

  ‘I am afraid they won’t have much use for a cot, Lady Emily. The youngest child is sixteen.’

  ‘No, I see. But still I don’t see how they are going to manage about the bedrooms. Monsieur and Madame Boulle can have your room, of course, with another bed moved into it, and then there is the dressing-room for him, and then the three other bedrooms for the three young people.’

  ‘I really don’t quite know, Lady Emily.’

  ‘Well, I can ask Madame Boulle when I go to call on her. I shall certainly call on her as soon as she is settled.’

  ‘Mamma,’ said Agnes, ‘don’t you want to know what Mr Banister’s good news is?’

  ‘Of course I do, Agnes, only we had to settle the question of the beds first. What is the news, Mr Banister?’

  ‘David tells me that he has found a guest for them, a friend of his who wants to spend a fortnight studying French.’

  ‘How delightful,’ said Lady Emily. ‘I must ask the Boulles to bring him up here for tennis.’

  ‘It is a young lady, Lady Emily, a Miss Stevenson. David tells me that she works at broadcasting in London.’

  ‘Then perhaps she will know some nice bedtime stories for the children,’ said Agnes.

  ‘I don’t know whether she does the Children’s Hour,’ said the vicar. ‘I rather gathered from David that she was on the executive side. She sounds a brilliant young woman. She got a first in economics and was secretary to Professor Gilbert for a year before she took up this work.’

  ‘When is she coming?’ asked Mary, afraid that her silence might be observed.

  ‘Let me see, he did say. Yes. The second fortnight in August.’

  ‘Then she will be here for Martin’s dance,’ said Lady Emily. ‘I must ask them all to it. It won’t be a big dance, Vicar. Just neighbours, about sixty or seventy people, I think, and the band from Southbridge. John and David will be here, of course.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Banister,’ said Mary. ‘I am going to see Cl
arissa put to bed. I hope you’ll have a splendid holiday.’

  She ran upstairs to the nursery, determined not to think about David for a single minute. Hateful David. Horrible Miss Stevenson. Sneaking into Rushwater by back doors. Probably she spoke perfect French already. Such a very brilliant person would. She knew David’s weekend invitation was rather vague, and she had found this clever way of worming herself in.

  Clarissa was just going to be bathed, and Nannie graciously allowed Mary to assume her flannel apron and soap Clarissa’s divine slippery body.

  And of course David wanted her, or he wouldn’t have told her about the Boulles wanting a paying-guest. He didn’t think his Miss Stevenson was good enough to ask to his mother’s house, so he installed her at the vicarage. The word install gave Mary considerable pleasure, conveying as it did a flavour of illicit relations and petits soupers.

  She helped Clarissa to walk out of her bath and sat her on her lap to be dried.

  Hateful David. How dared he think that she wouldn’t mind if he put his arm round her? Of course she didn’t like it, but no one made a fuss about that sort of thing nowadays. Perhaps he thought she had put her head on his shoulder because she liked him. Good heavens, didn’t he know that it was a gesture which meant nothing, absolutely nothing? Here she laughed so loudly to show her scorn of the idea that Clarissa began to laugh too.

  ‘Angel!’ said Mary, buttoning up Clarissa’s dressing-gown and pushing her feet into her bedroom slippers, ‘you don’t go behind people’s backs and be a hateful selfish pig, do you?’

  She kissed Clarissa with great satisfaction in the nape of her neck and lifted her into her tall chair. Nannie coming back found Miss Mary telling Clarissa ‘This Little Pig went to Market’ while she ate her biscuits.

  ‘There, Baby, isn’t it kind of Auntie Mary to bath you?’ she said.

  Clarissa took the mug of milk in both hands and tilted it to her mouth. After a long and satisfying draught she set it down on the edge of the table and it fell on to the floor.