Wild Strawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC)

by Angela Thirkell

  ‘Broadcasting House have certain prejudices which, as loyal employees, we are bound to respect. So we shall be married at a registrar’s office quite soon. I shall invite you. But the marriage will be, in its essence, purely companionate. Lionel and I have been thinking it over all this summer, and I had some news by chance yesterday which decided me definitely.’

  Miss Stevenson coloured slightly and becomingly.

  ‘Well,’ said David, recovering his poise, ‘all the best of luck, and I’m delighted. I’ll look Lionel up as soon as I get back to town. But I may be going to South America. I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, goodbye, my dear,’ said Miss Stevenson, clasping David’s hand. ‘And I may say now that as a mere question of emotion, there are, frankly, many men that I would care less to live with than you, but our types would make it impossible. Come along, Ursule.’

  ‘And take some biscuits in case you are hungry on the way home,’ said David, pressing a plateful on Ursule.

  Thank you,’ said she, putting them into her coat pocket.

  David let the ladies out by the French window and went off to find John. He was really anxious about his brother’s haggard appearance, and also wanted to let off steam to him. It was intensely mortifying to be turned down by a girl to whom you would never have had the faintest idea of proposing, honourably or otherwise. Also, from his knowledge of Joan and her world, he thought it more than probable that she would tell all her friends exactly what she had done, and everyone would laugh at him. The idea of being laughed at by Lionel Harvest was peculiarly repulsive, and David felt a strong urge to go straight up to town and kick Lionel, without telling him why. But as for marrying Joan, why, one would as soon think of marrying Mary, dear little thing.

  He tried the schoolroom, but only found Martin and Jean-Claude, having a delightful talk about motor bicycles. To Martin’s great relief, Jean-Claude had come to tell him that the royalists were disbanded. Professor Boulle, having suspected a little of what was going on, had spoken to Pierre and Jean-Claude on the subject of keeping one’s ideal in one’s heart and not making it too cheap. Pierre, revelling in the pangs of unrecognised love, had shut himself up with his books, and Ursule was only interested in her food and Miss Stevenson. Jean-Claude, still in the depths of disgrace with his mother, had come to seek refuge with Martin, and was delighted to find his comrade as ready as he was to ignore the scene of the preceding night.

  ‘Seen John anywhere?’ asked David.

  ‘No. I say, David, do look at this Rover model.’

  ‘Sorry, Martin, I’m busy. I’ll look at it another time.’

  ‘You must bring your auto bicycle to France next Easter,’ said Jean-Claude, ‘and we will make excursions. I shall sit behind and you will conduct. The French roads are much better than the English roads for going fast. The French roads are, in fact, recognised as the best roads—’

  David shut the door and went to the library. Here he found John sitting hunched up in a chair, looking at the unlighted fire.

  ‘I say, you do look rotten,’ said David. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. David, don’t go to town today. I’m clearing out myself.’

  ‘Just as you like, but I don’t know if I’m going or not. I want to see Father first. I think I shall do as he wants and take on that job at Buenos Aires for a bit.’

  ‘Buenos Aires?’

  ‘Yes, you know, that land Father wanted me to look after. It wouldn’t be bad fun for a year or so.’

  ‘This is all very sudden,’ said John perplexed. If David was going to marry Mary, why go to South America? Or perhaps it would be their honeymoon.

  ‘You may well say so. I only made up my mind about five minutes ago.’

  ‘I suppose you’ll get married before you go,’ said John, carefully keeping his voice steady.

  ‘Married? But why? Does one have to get married to go to the Argentine? But I didn’t know how near being married I was. You know Joan Stevenson.’

  John looked up, surprised.

  David poured into his brother’s half-incredulous ears his account of Miss Stevenson’s visit, her calm assumption of his passion, her cool rejection of a suit which it had never occurred to him to press, and, final mortification, that he was sure she would make a story that everyone would laugh over for weeks.

  ‘So I think I’ll clear out for the present,’ said David. ‘I can work on my novel on the boat. If I weren’t an English gentleman, John, I’d say a few hearty words about Joan. Marry her? Why, I’d as soon think of marrying Mary.’

  ‘Look here, David, this is serious. Don’t joke. Haven’t you asked Mary to marry you?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. She’s a dear girl and a splendid walker, but not a girl I’d ask to marry me. That’s a thing I’d be serious about.’

  ‘But,’ said John, getting up and going over to the window, ‘I was in the garden last night.’

  ‘Were you? So was I, but I don’t see what that has to do with it.’

  ‘Look here, David,’ said his brother, still with his back to him, ‘you and Mary were near the summer-house about midnight. I was walking about and I saw you. So I went away at once. I’ve been waiting to congratulate you.’

  ‘My dear old ass,’ said David, flinging his arm round his brother’s shoulders, ‘did you think we were taking things seriously?’

  ‘I damn well did.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you minded,’ said David, on whom the true state of things was just beginning to dawn.

  ‘Of course I did,’ said John, prowling up and down the room, ‘but I wasn’t going to stand in your way.’

  ‘You great footling ass,’ said David affectionately, ‘I suppose you want to marry Mary yourself.’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Well, why not then? Father and Macpherson will be delighted, and Mother and Agnes will cry. It’s all perfect. Come along and let’s find her.’

  ‘Wait a moment, David. Are you sure she doesn’t care for you?’

  ‘Oh, do stop being quixotic, John. Whether she cares for me or not, I’m not going to marry the girl, and that’s flat. As for last night – bless your innocent heart, that wasn’t a rapturous embrace. It was only a small moonlight madness. They all get it. Come on.’

  Full of enthusiasm at this fresh turn of affairs, David dragged his brother from the room.

  A quarter of an hour earlier Mary and Agnes were in the nursery playing with the children, while Nannie and Ivy were busy in the night nursery. Agnes looked lovely and placid as ever in spite of her late night, but Mary was a washed-out wreck. Ashamed, frightened, exultant, remorseful by turns, she had not slept at all. David’s embrace had been a pinnacle of rapture, but what were the consequences to be? It was a question that she dared not ask herself. In vain did she try to read aloud to Emmy. The most drivelling adventures of Hobo-Gobo and the fairy Joybell were unable to hold her attention. Her voice quavered and she began to cry.

  ‘What is the matter, Mary dear?’ asked Agnes. ‘Come and take Clarissa on your lap and tell me all about it.’

  Mary obediently picked Clarissa up from the rug where she was playing and sat down near Agnes. The feeling of a fat Clarissa in her arms was certainly comforting, but it did not stem the flood of her tears.

  ‘Now, what is it, darling?’ asked Agnes again. ‘Is it about anybody?’

  To this leading question Mary only replied by begging her aunt to promise not to tell anyone, ever, because it was so awful.

  ‘Of course not. We won’t tell anyone, will we, darling Clarissa?’

  Mary then poured out an incoherent jumble of words from which her Aunt Agnes gathered that David was so wonderful, but he was so unkind, and John was so kind and always made one feel safe and comfortable. And she had been in the garden with David last night and he had kissed her on the top of her head, and did Aunt Agnes think this meant they were engaged? Because if it did she would die, because though she adored David and had thought of him a great deal and really had
been quite foolish about him and still thought him frightfully good-looking, she couldn’t possibly be engaged to him, it would be too awful. And she couldn’t bear to think that John, who had always been such a dear to her, should think badly of her.

  ‘But why should he?’

  ‘Because he saw me last night. He came out from the trees on to the grass and saw us, and then he went away again.’

  ‘I wish Robert were here,’ said Agnes. ‘He would know exactly what to do. I think we had better tell John. That is much the simplest.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt Agnes, I couldn’t.’

  ‘But why not? It is always much better to get things straight, and a man can always arrange things. We will come downstairs and ask him.’

  ‘But what will he say? And what will David say? Oh dear, oh dear. Oh, how I wish John were here.’

  Agnes delivered her offspring to Ivy and took Mary to her bedroom, where she let her dabble about with some very expensive skin tonic and some special face powder, which cheered Mary up a good deal.

  ‘And now we will go and find John and everything will be quite all right,’ said Agnes comfortably.

  As she and Mary came into the hall, they met John and David.

  ‘We were just looking for you, John dear,’ said Agnes. ‘Mary has been so unhappy and we thought you could help.’

  ‘I was just bringing John along to find Mary,’ said David. ‘He has been in no end of a stew and all about nothing.’

  There was a pause. As the principal persons in this scene remained obstinately mute, and indeed showed symptoms of backing away from their seconds, Agnes took the matter into her own hands.

  ‘Now we will all sit down and explain,’ she said. ‘David, you were very annoying last night, and Mary is quite unhappy. She thought you wanted to marry her, and of course that upset her very much, because she didn’t want to.’

  ‘My dear Agnes,’ said David. ‘I don’t want to boast, but this is the second lady who has thought I wanted to marry her this morning. I simply couldn’t bear to marry anyone, so tell your client so.’

  ‘Well, you have been too naughty and unkind,’ said Agnes, ‘and Mary is quite annoyed.’

  At these words from the gentle Agnes, Mary was overcome with remorse.

  ‘Don’t be angry, David,’ she said. ‘It is only that I was afraid we might be engaged, which would have been dreadful. But you have been very kind really, like giving me that lovely bag and the basket of wild strawberries.’

  ‘If that’s all,’ said David, ‘I shall now unmask. John was trying to do Enoch Arden this morning, and I shall now be David Garrick. Those wild strawberries, Mary, were not my thought. It was John who told me to send them.’

  ‘Oh, David, but you said—’

  ‘I know I did. I had quite forgotten. As a matter of fact, John rang me up that day we had lunch together and said you were unhappy because I had forgotten to give you strawberries, and suggested that I should bring some down to you. So I did. The one noble action of my life was prompted by another. So there.’

  Mary gazed at him in silence.

  ‘So, Agnes,’ he continued, ‘having done my best on your client’s behalf, I shall now withdraw, and I think you’d better come too, as John appears to have creeping paralysis at present.’

  Agnes got up.

  ‘There, Mary,’ she said, ‘I told you the best plan was to tell John.’

  ‘You and I,’ said David to his sister as they left the hall, ‘will now go up to the gallery and look over the edge at the young people. I don’t intend to go to South America till I have seen this thing through.’

  ‘Are you going to South America, David? That will be very nice, because you will see Robert.’

  ‘I certainly shall, if he hasn’t left before I arrive.’

  ‘If he has left you could always send him a wireless when your ships get near each other. It is so nice to get a wireless when one is on a ship. Of course, Emmy and darling Clarissa will be bridesmaids and James can be a page. But, David, you must be best man. You can’t go to South America without being best man. Robert’s best man was a very charming man in his regiment, whose name I can’t remember.’

  ‘Martin can do that,’ said David, as they reached the gallery and leaned over the balustrade.

  ‘So he could. And now John needn’t let the Chelsea house. It will do nicely for him and Mary, so that is all very delightful. I hope Robert will be home in time for the wedding.’

  ‘Now leave Robert alone for a minute and try to concentrate, Agnes. Look at them.’

  John and Mary, left to themselves, became a prey to silent embarrassment. At last John, speaking with considerable difficulty, asked Mary if she could ever forgive him.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For thinking what I thought last night.’

  ‘If what you thought last night is what I think it is, I expect it did look rather like that. But truly, John, it wasn’t really being kissed. It was only David’s chin on the top of my head. I nearly died of misery when I saw you. I wanted to explain, and I was afraid, and I never slept all night with misery.’

  ‘My poor lamb,’ said John. And sitting down by her on the sofa, he gathered her into a most satisfactory embrace, to the intense interest of his brother and sister in the gallery above.

  Just then, Gudgeon, crossing the hall, was for once taken aback by what he saw, and uttered an exclamation.

  John looked up.

  ‘It’s all right, Gudgeon,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You can carry on. Miss Preston and I are engaged.’

  ‘I am very happy to hear it, sir,’ said Gudgeon. ‘If I may say so, Mr John, nothing could give more satisfaction in the Room and the Hall.’

  ‘Thanks awfully, Gudgeon. And now you might go away again like a good fellow.’

  But Gudgeon’s hour and power were upon him. Stepping over to the gong, he took the gong-stick from its rest, gave it a few preliminary twirls, and executed such a nuptial fanfare upon his favourite instrument that the whole house rang. Mary, startled, tried to get up, but John held her firmly in her proper place. David and Agnes from above were laughing, and, in Agnes’s case, crying. Mr Leslie came out of the library.

  ‘What the devil are you up to, Gudgeon?’ he asked.

  At the same moment Lady Emily limped out of the morning-room.

  ‘Is that the gong, Gudgeon?’ she inquired.

  ‘No, my lady,’ said Gudgeon, waving his gong-stick towards the sofa, ‘it is wedding bells – in anticipation, of course, my lady.’

  VIRAGO MODERN CLASSICS

  HIGH RISING

  Angela Thirkell

  Successful novelist Laura Morland and her boisterous son Tony set off to spend Christmas at their country home in the sleepy surrounds of High Rising. But Laura's wealthy friend and neighbour George Knox has taken on a scheming secretary whose designs on marriage to her employer threaten the delicate social fabric of the village. Can clever, practical Laura rescue George from Miss Grey's clutches and, what's more, help his daughter Miss Sibyl Knox to secure her longed-for engagement?

  Charming, funny and irresistibly entertaining, High Rising, first published in 1933, was the first of Angela Thirkell's celebrated classic comedies.

  VIRAGO MODERN CLASSICS

  EXCELLENT WOMEN

  Barbara Pym

  Mildred Lathbury is one of those excellent women who are often taken for granted. She is a godsend, ‘capable of dealing with most of the stock situations or even the great moments of life – birth, marriage, death, the successful jumble sale, the garden fete spoiled by bad weather’. Her glamorous new neighbours, the Napiers, seem to be in marital crisis. One cannot take sides in these matters, though it is tricky, especially when Mildred has a soft spot for dashing Rockingham Napier. This is Barbara Pym’s world at its funniest and most touching.

  ‘I’d sooner read a new Barbara Pym than a new Jane Austen’ Philip Larkin

  rawberries: A Virago Modern Classic (VMC)