by Richard Hull
7
It seems hardly credible, but even this trivial pigeon became a bone of contention between my aunt and myself. Once more the matter started at lunch; indeed, except at meals I generally manage to avoid my aunt.
‘Steak pie, dear?’ said she, with an accent on the ‘dear’, which I can only call hypocritical; ‘not pigeon pie, I am afraid. Your lap-dog only managed to catch a very old bird, Evans tells me.’
It would, I knew, be useless to argue with her and point out how essentially unfair her assumptions were. Accordingly silence fell for some few minutes. My aunt turned her rather heavily built shoulders in order to repulse So-so who was asking her in his charming way for a share of the pie. I always admire the spirit with which he tries to win my aunt’s affections and attempts to get his tit-bits from the hardest source, instead of taking the easier course of appealing to me.
‘A horrid little dog,’ remarked Aunt Mildred; ‘if he doesn’t learn to behave soon, we shall have to get rid of him.’
This was a bit too much for me. ‘I shall not allow that. Please remember that he is my dog.’
‘And it was my pigeon.’
‘It walked straight into him when he was asleep and began to tease him. Naturally the dog snapped.’
‘Yes, naturally, after his master has encouraged him to chase the pigeons whenever he sees them.’
In my agitation I unfortunately allowed a piece of steak to go down the wrong way and was consequently quite unable to reply to this. Moreover, my aunt, under the impression that she was applying a restorative, leapt up and dealt me several blows on the back of so severe a nature, that tears were almost brought into my eyes.
‘In future, my dear Edward,’ she continued, returning to her chair, ‘you will control him better. Or – I shall take action.’ An ominous phrase of hers which I had learned from an early age presaged something inevitable and extremely unpleasant. I shot a glance of scorn, and it must be admitted, a little alarm at her ill-fitting and too youthful blue blouse. In her grey-green eyes was a look of intense conviction, and the nostrils of her large nose were quivering with determination.
‘I shall look after So-so, poor dog, Aunt Mildred,’ I said, ‘even if no one else does.’ With that I gave him the choicest morsel on my plate. Unfortunately it was too hot for his delicate tongue, and he spat it out on the carpet and followed that by being instantly slightly sick.
‘You don’t do it very well,’ commented my aunt grimly, ‘but you can make a start by clearing up the mess. You’ll find a duster in the drawer of the cupboard in the hall.’
I really do not see why my aunt should always have the last word.
By the time we had finished lunch it had started to rain. There is nothing more depressing in the world than this countryside in wet weather. The clouds collect so rapidly on the hills to the west of us that it is never safe to rely on the forecasts given in the papers or by wireless. One minute the sky is blue and the sun shining and you feel certain you are going to have a fine day; the next, down have come the clouds and the whole district is blotted out in a deep-grey mist of incredible dreariness, and with the clouds comes a cold, misty drizzle, which turns into a downpour, which lasts for hours, perhaps for days. As I look out of my window I can see the meadow beyond the garden, but the cattle are gone, and there is nothing but sodden grass and dripping trees. Gone too is the Broad Mountain behind banks of clouds and the Golfas might be in another world. One feels isolated, cut off from all mankind, lost and surrounded beneath countless miles of impenetrable grey, blanketing wetness. The wind whistles over the top of Yr Allt – my aunt could not today have sat there and jeered as she watched me toiling painfully up the road from Llwll – and tugs at the creeper on the side of Brynmawr. I can see little but the window-sill of my room, painted a hideous shade of pink, which always reminds one of that depressing substance, anchovy sauce. I did once remonstrate with my aunt as to this colour, and received the crushing and irrelevant answer that it always had been painted that colour.
Always had been! My aunt’s great idea so far as decorating the house is concerned, both inside and out, seems to be that a thing is right because it is traditional. Except in my own room there is not a note of modernity anywhere. And as for my aunt’s idea of colour! I did try to explain to her once how deeply the surroundings, especially the colour of one’s surroundings, affect the texture of one’s very soul. She only retorted by some very personal comments on a pullover I happened to be wearing. It was, perhaps, a trifle loud; crushed strawberry may be a little too bright for my fair complexion, but there was no need for her to say what she did.
And so her drawing-room remains unalterably the same. A carpet with a meaningless pattern, largely of olive yellow, very distressing, which she admits is not satisfactory but which she refuses to discard on the ground of economy; wall-paper – fancy wall-paper! – covered with a meaningless pattern of roses and vine knots, which I believe was fashionable when that entirely deplorable man, William Morris, first started his curious theories on the ‘Home Beautiful’; chairs, either covered with ill-fitting chintz covers made locally, because poor Miss Somebody in Llwll must be given work, or standing nakedly bedizened with, of all things, red plush – dirty, worn red plush. I shudder whenever I go into the room.
Above the mantelpiece of white marble is an ornate gilt mirror, and in front of it stand incredible little pieces of pseudo-Dresden china, shepherds and shepherdesses, in glass cases, if you please! In the middle, incongruously, is a very plain travelling-clock in a shabby leather case. It has earned the place of honour because, forsooth, it keeps good time. As if time did not stand completely still at Brynmawr. I once ventured to point out this symbolical fact to my aunt, but she only took it literally.
‘Not at all, dear. Time goes on here just as much as anywhere. As a matter of fact, Cook is very punctual with her meals. It’s you who are late,’ and then she broke off on to some uncalled-for remarks on my natural liking for my meals and preference for having them hot; criticism, criticism, always nagging criticism – and of me too!
Well, I must stop writing for the present. We are due to go and have tea and play bridge this afternoon with Dr Spencer and his futile wife. They live about a mile on the other side of Llwll, and I do not fancy that the drive will be amusing. In fact I think I shall go and suggest to my aunt that we put them off.
8
Of course I wasted my time on that errand. I might have known that any suggestion, however sensible, would be turned down if it came from me.
‘But, my dear, we promised the Spencers we would go.’ My aunt put down her knitting and stared at me with apparently genuine amazement. ‘You can’t let people down like that.’
‘Really, Aunt Mildred, you are a martyr to your ideas of morality. I’m sure the Spencers don’t really want to see us. No one would want to see anyone on this typically Welsh afternoon, I should imagine.’ With a wave of my hand, I indicated the excruciating weather. I find it a sure way of getting a rise out of my aunt, who finds it necessary to praise slavishly everything belonging to Wales, including even its appalling climate.
‘You’re not afraid of getting wet, are you?’
‘I see nothing clever in getting wet, Aunt Mildred; but as a matter of fact there is no need to do so. I imagine that not even you propose to walk on such an afternoon. No, I merely think that it will be dull and boring, and surely one may occasionally accept an invitation when one can think of no reason for refusing at the moment, with every intention of getting out of it later.’
‘And how would you propose to do so?’
‘Oh, ring up and make some excuse.’
‘Certainly not, Edward; I have no intention of telling any lies to gratify your passing whim. Besides, the Spencers are very charming people, and you wouldn’t be alive if Dr Spencer hadn’t been a very able man.’
This dragging in of an alleged benefit many years old, the magnitude of which I beg leave to doubt, was simply maddening. My au
nt’s arguments are never relevant.
She continued to look at me severely. ‘I believe the real reason,’ she went on, ‘is that you are afraid of losing money if you cut against me. Well, I dare say you are a bit hard up with paying Williams, so if you like I’ll carry you.’
This was a challenge that could not be refused. ‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘Even if luck has been against me, I am quite prepared to back my bridge against yours or against the Spencers, even if I do cut with you.’
My aunt ignored the implication. ‘Very well then. That’s settled.’ She gathered up her knitting. ‘We’ll start in five minutes. I’ll have the car round by then. And, by the way, Edward, while we are there, try not to be rude.’ She shut the door before I had time to reply.
Normally when we go out we generally have some discussion as to which car we shall go in. My aunt maintains that no respectable woman should travel in a car with the seductive line of La Joyeuse, and I – well, I hate to be seen in anything so out of date as my aunt’s Morris. Besides, my aunt’s idea of driving is, to say the least of it, terrifying. It often ends in our going separately. However, on this occasion I let her have her way. There was some truth in her comments on my financial affairs, crude though it was of her to have mentioned it, and the economy of petrol, trifling though it would be, was wise. Besides, by the arrangement she had proposed, she would have to go out into the wet to fetch the car. The best retort I could make would be to wait patiently by the front door.
My aunt took this somewhat amiss. She seemed to think that something would have been gained if I had gone out with her, though why I can’t imagine. She was still murmuring something about manners and chivalry when we reached the Spencers’; she must have been deeply moved, for my aunt is not given to murmuring.
Naturally I was not giving her my whole attention. An idea was forming in my mind. Judging by the way my aunt drove, it seemed more than likely that sooner or later she would have a bad smash; now if only that accident could come soon! There are some quite dangerous places just outside the gates of Brynmawr where the ground falls away steeply from the side of the road to the bottom of the dingle. If a car were to go over the side, it would roll over and over and over right to the bottom. I found I could visualize the scene clearly. In fact I had difficulty in driving it out of my mind, so distinct in every detail was it. An accident to a careless driver, one who messed about for no obvious reason with the top of her float chamber, how suitable, what poetic justice! I had to exercise considerable will-power to realize that I was confronted by Mrs Spencer.
I suppose that this idea distracted my attention from my bridge. My thoughts would not concentrate on trifles such as trumps and sevens and eights. Besides, it surely is unnecessary to think at auction. Contract has not yet been heard of at Llwll. When it is, my aunt will merely say, ‘But we have always played auction,’ and apparently that will settle it.
As a matter of fact I think I wrong myself in what I have written. There was nothing amiss with my game. I do not know of any single case in which I did anything which was really wrong. It was simply that I had the most infernal luck. Of course my aunt does not know the difference between bad luck and bad play. She merely goes by results. If a finesse fails, or a jack is unexpectedly guarded, my aunt will always invent some reason to blame me for not seeing the probability, or, as she will say, the extreme likelihood, or even certainty, of that happening. And I did have one of those afternoons when not a single finesse would go right. My aunt, on the other hand, always played in the way which the mathematical probabilities clearly showed was wrong, as I would have demonstrated to her if she had condescended to listen, and by some amazing freak the right way of playing the hand always led to disaster, whereas the wrong way gave my aunt triumph after triumph.
Dr Spencer, too, is an infuriating person to play bridge with. He is one long question mark. ‘Whose deal is it? Oh, your deal. Ought I to cut? Is it my call? Oh, you dealt, did you, what did you say?’ The unfortunate dealer indicates that he has said ‘one spade,’ and is tempted to add, ‘three times.’ ‘Oh, yes, one spade, you did say spade, didn’t you? Yes, thank you so much. Then I’ll say no bid.’ And so he goes on throughout the hand, during which he always asks (a) what the contract is, (b) what are trumps, (c) whose lead it is, whenever it is his, besides on an average ten more questions of varying kinds of futility. The only time he does not ask a question is when his partner does not follow to a suit; as a result of this remission he made me revoke twice. Naturally when he plays the hand, he usually forgets what he is trying to do, and frequently leads from the wrong hand with the attendant penalty. He let me down very badly.
It was not until the last rubber that I held any cards at all, and then, just as my luck was turning, Dr Spencer must needs say, ‘Well, I’ m glad you’ve had a consolation rubber, Edward. Not been doing much good today. However, it’s all good experience.’
Now, why because he mishandled (as I have no doubt he did) my youthful ailments, should he presume to talk to me like that? Good experience, indeed! I’ve forgotten more about bridge than he’s ever known, and I don’t go ‘four spades’ on six to the queen with one king outside as my aunt does. If I did, I shouldn’t find three aces and a singleton in dummy as she always does. Not very valuable experience that. Card sense and instinct indeed! What a claim for my aunt to make! She always does say that sort of thing to justify her more brazen performances. I shouldn’t be surprised if old Spencer kicked her under the table. He’s quite capable.
Of course auction is an out-of-date game, and contract, though modern, is really rather crude, like so many things American. Civilized people nowadays are playing the French version, plafond.
And so home to my aunt’s idea of dinner, made worse by her patronizing attempt to refund what she had won from me. Menus at Brynmawr, like the furniture, are constructed on the principle of sticking to established traditions. No new dish, no delicate sauce, no flair is ever shown by Cook. Just plain, solid, dull English food, good enough in its way, I must admit, but unvarying. However, I generally have a healthy appetite.
And so to bed, and to dream. To dream all night of a Morris car turning over and over, down the steep bank leading to the dingle.
‘Edward,’ said my aunt this morning at breakfast, ‘you should not eat so much dinner. I heard you yelling in your sleep several times last night.’
2 · Brakes and Biscuits
I
For some time past now that particular spot on the road just outside Brynmawr has fascinated me.
The front gate of the house is some thirty or forty yards from the front door, before which is an open space of asphalt, useful but hardly ornamental. I think my aunt is aware of its lack of beauty for, on the left-hand side of this space as you come out, is a border containing bulbs in spring, various flowers in the summer, and dahlias in the autumn on which my aunt lavishes even more than her usual considerable care, for she is devoted to her garden and even occasionally forces me into assistance in this pursuit, so tiring for the body and the intellect. Still I must admit the success of her efforts as to flowers and vegetables. Fruit eludes her as a rule, since the sun so seldom shines in this desolate post.
As you stand by the front door then, to the left of the asphalt is her best border, to your front and rather to the right is a patch of lawn, which is a slight bone of contention, my aunt constantly bemoaning the fact that it is too small to play tennis on, while the ground slopes so steeply in all directions that it would be impossible to enlarge it without constructing a colossal embankment, which would be extremely unsightly. My aunt, however, would be quite prepared to erect such a monstrosity, but is fortunately restrained by expense. For myself I should like to use it as a lawn for croquet, a form of exercise which I admire and which I understand is likely to become fashionable once more among modern people. There is an aesthetic grace in the movements, a pleasant, simple symbolism in the impingement of red on yellow and blue on black. Moreover, one can
indulge one’s primitive passions by destroying completely one’s adversary’s plans, and leaving him hopelessly and helplessly wired from any reasonable possibility of success. What are games for, except to release one’s complexes by a little flavouring of spite? My aunt, however, has some objection to croquet. She implies that it is effeminate. Moreover, to her generation, it is out of date. She cannot realize that there can be a revival in games as well as fashions.
From the garage to the front gate there are two ways. There is an extremely narrow passage by the side of the house which enables cars to be brought to and from the front door. There is also a way through the back-yard gate on to the road which runs behind the border I have mentioned, but six feet or so below it. The narrow passage and the wall behind the border are of recent date, having been constructed by my aunt. They serve well enough for her car and mine, but when my friend Innes who runs a Bentley comes to stay with me it is almost impossible for him to get round without damaging the wings of his car. Naturally my aunt refuses to allow that her construction of this passage was inadequately considered, and blames the innocent Innes for having so large a car. Characteristically she takes no notice of the damage to his Bentley but refers to Innes whenever he is mentioned as ‘your friend who scratched the paint off the side of the house.’ she will usually accompany this by turning her eyes to anyone who is standing near, or to heaven if no one is, and murmuring, ‘Such a careless driver.’ In this way she hopes to escape from the consequences of her own lack of foresight!
