There was a long pause and he heard Claire calling from the library, ‘Who is it, Paul?’
‘Simon! He’s ‘phoning from Manchester,’ and she came into the hall as Paul heard a crisp, unrecognisable voice on the line. ‘Mr Craddock? You remember me?’
‘Good Lord, of course I remember you, Rachel! Listen, before we’re cut off. Would you like me to go over and tell Marian? I’m sure she’d appreciate it.’
There was a brief pause, during which Claire joggled his elbow and he shook her off, impatiently. ‘Did you hear, Rachel?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I’d like that, Mr Craddock, and tell her I’ll write. I’m sorry you can’t come but we both understand—and, Mr Craddock . . . ’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll look after him well. You don’t have to worry.’
‘I hope he’ll look after you, Rachel—but thank you, I . . . I’m happy about it, even if it is a bit sudden, and I’m sure Mrs Craddock will be. Can we ring you anywhere later?’
‘Yes, you can. We’re going to town just for the weekend to a conference actually,’ and she gave him a number that he jotted down on the pad.
‘There are the pips,’ she said, ‘don’t reverse! Simon’s getting wet now! Good-bye, Mr Craddock.’
‘Good-bye, my dear. And good luck, both of you.’
The wire clicked and began to purr. Slowly he replaced the receiver and turned to meet Claire’s bewildered gaze.
‘Who on earth was it? You said “Simon”, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it was Simon who called but that was Rachel Horsey, nee Eveleigh.’
‘Eveleigh’s second daughter? The one who married the parson’s son and never came back?’
He nodded. ‘What do you remember about her?’
‘Only that she was a pretty girl with a generous share of Norman Eveleigh’s pigheadedness. Why?’
‘She’ll need it, she’s marrying Simon the day after tomorrow,’ and as she gasped and her hand shot to her mouth as it always did when she was surprised, ‘Come out of this damned draught and I’ll tell you what little I know. Fix me a drink too. It’s a wonder I’m not a dipsomaniac with my crazy family.’
Simon’s letter duly arrived, a breezy statement of fact, ‘Like an extract from one of his damned statistical reviews on malnutrition,’ Paul muttered, but he made no such comment about a letter Marian Eveleigh handed to him a day or so later, after he had ridden over and told her the news. Marian was flushed and excited, although half-inclined to apologise for her daughter having married into the Squire’s family but it seemed to Paul that Norman, her husband, had some difficulty taking it in. He kept shaking his head and fidgeting with his hands and his only remark when his wife repeated the news into his one sound ear was, ‘Arr, Rachel’s alwus gone her orn way! Nothin’ new about that, be there?’
When Marian walked him to the yard he said, ‘How is he these days, Marian? He doesn’t seem too great,’ and she said, defiantly, that he could still do a good day’s work but that the deafness that had followed his partial stroke a year or so ago sometimes gave people the idea that he was wool-gathering. The Lady Doctor, she went on, using the term the Valley had applied to Maureen Rudd since 1906, had urged him to give up work altogether but she knew this would be fatal to him. ‘He’d only moon about and die of boredom,’ she said, ‘so let un carry on, long as he can. As to our Rachel, she’s a hard one and no mistake! She’s never forgotten that war-time bust-up. Maybe this’ll make a difference. I wouldn’t like to think they kept it up until he was taaken.’
She seemed, Paul thought, resigned to him dying although he could hardly be more than seventy and looked strong enough physically. She was equally resigned to tending him and sticking by him, having found it easy to erase the memory of a war-time peccadillo with the land-girl who had once moved into her bedroom and been ejected by Claire. He said, briefly, ‘Well, I don’t know what you think about it, Marian, but I hope you’ll believe me when I tell you I think Rachel is what Simon needs. She’s had plenty of trouble of her own and I daresay she’ll mother him and persuade him to settle down somewhere.’
‘None of ’em will ever do that be our standards, Squire,’ she replied, ‘and I don’t reckon it’s their fault altogether. Nothing’s ever been quite the same since, has it?’
‘No,’ said Paul, cheerfully, for he heard this kind of remark every day from one or other of the older generation, ‘but there’s a good deal I’m not sorry to see gone. Taken all round people are kinder and at least we’re unlikely to see another war again, so we must have learned something from it.’
‘Lord God, I do hope you’re right,’ said Marian fervently. ‘Would you like to see the letter she writes me if ’er does?’
‘Yes indeed,’ Paul said, privately hoping it would be more explicit than Simon’s telephone conversation.
It wasn’t, or not much. Marian sent it over a day or so later and it looked fat enough to be informative until he realised that the envelope contained a sealed letter addressed to him as well as a brief letter to Mrs Eveleigh. He thought, as he took it out, ‘Now why the devil didn’t she write direct? She hasn’t forgotten where we live has she?’ but he ceased to wonder when he saw, written slantways across the inside envelope, ‘For Mr Paul Craddock! Personal!’ and his jaw dropped at the first paragraph, which read: ‘Dear Squire Craddock,—I’m sorry, I can’t think of you as a plain “Mr” although, to be frank, I wouldn’t like you to think I subscribe to patronage of any kind!’ His curiosity overcame his surprise as he read on—‘I haven’t told Simon I’m writing for obvious reasons and therefore enclose this with Mother’s letter. I wouldn’t have thought of writing if I hadn’t got to know Simon well enough to understand you far more than I did in the old days, when I was a child growing up in the Valley. Ordinarily I set my face against landlords of all kinds but you are an exception apart from the fact (whether we like it or not) we’re now related. Any prejudice I might have had in your respect has gone long ago and not only because—as I say—I’ve learned about you through Simon, but also because you’ve never shown my family, particularly my mother, anything but consideration and therefore you don’t qualify as a landlord in my book!’
His unpredictable sense of humour was already at work and he found himself grinning broadly. ‘By God,’ he muttered aloud, ‘young Simon’s met his match here and no mistake!’ and because her uncompromising style reminded him so vividly of Grace riding her sex-equality hobby-horse he readdressed himself to the letter with enthusiasm.
‘Well,’ she went on blandly, ‘that will do for a preamble; now to the grist. Honestly, Mr Craddock, you’ve made a real mess of Simon and sometimes I feel it’s almost too late to unravel him! I’m going to try, though, for Keith persevered with me and I was even more hopeless material. I remember the fearful row we had about the time we married when I curtsied to his father! You see, Simon has terrific potential—a receptive mind, good reasoning powers, good health, a first-class memory and so on, but what are these worth without drive and purpose and direction? When I met him he was ambling along like a sick mule, feeling so sorry for himself that whatever capacity he had to do something practical for anyone else was a spluttering fuse that led nowhere and would have ended blowing himself up with a faint pop! I imagine you were always handicapped by the fact that his mother dodged the job of bringing him up and that made you lean over backwards to make allowances for him. That damned public school you sent him to didn’t help either but that’s another story. The point is, he’s my responsibility now and I want you to know that I’m serious to the point of priggery about any responsibilities I take on! That’s why I always take my time accepting a new one as I did by marrying Si. After all, he’s twenty-six and I’m thirty-four, so there was plenty to worry about had he been adult, which he certainly wasn’t when I met him the night of his brothers’ twenty-first party.’
He knew it was important to digest this letter line by line so he went back and started again. He knew, also, that she was not merely forthright to the point of arrogance but that her judgment was sound and that every shot fired scored a bull’s-eye. He had leaned over backwards to make allowances; Simon had all those qualities she named and he did lack purpose and direction; he was not fully adult and never had been, as though some hidden streak of Lovell indolence blunted his natural talents to a degree that made him seem rootless and ineffectual and yet, somewhere inside him, was a persistent flicker of Grace’s fire. That a child of Norman and Marian Eveleigh, whose education could not have exceeded a rudimentary grounding at Mary Willoughby’s little school, should have perceived this astonished him. Could she have learned so much in her brief marriage to Keith Horsey? Or had it been dinned into her during the long struggle to make ends meet and keep her head above water, without whining to a father she despised? He realised that this was something he would never know. Clearly she was not a person to proclaim her own triumphs. He read on: ‘I’m going to make something of Si, Mr Craddock—really make something of him! What emerges may not be the kind of person you admire but at least that person will amount to something. I think it’s right that I should tell you this because, in a way, I need your help. I want you to promise you’ll never send him money. He has a little (about three pounds a week) from his mother’s estate and that’s more than enough to tide us over until he can stand on his own feet. If he thinks he can always come back to you I’m beaten from the start. Some of the people we work among raise families on less than this and if there is one thing I can’t stand it’s a theorist who preaches Socialism when his own belt is let out to the last notch! Believe me, Mr Craddock, we get plenty of those in the Movement and I wish to God they would stop pretending and go over to the Opposition! I haven’t made up my mind yet exactly what Simon will go for but meantime he’s teaching in the WEA (Workers’ Education Association) and soon I’m hoping he’ll take an external in Economics. After that, if things work out as I hope, he’ll get electoral experience in a hopeless seat and finally, with more luck, stand for somewhere with a chance of winning. All this, of course, is dependent upon him and also on my hunch about him. Meantime, if Mrs Craddock fusses (and I wouldn’t blame her a bit if she did, for she obviously knows him better than you!), do try and convince her I’ll make him as good a wife as he’ll let me. He’s a very lovable boy and although I’m sure I don’t sound it I’m a naturally affectionate person. Yours very sincerely, Rachel Craddock.’
It took his breath away for a moment and then the chuckle that had been trying to escape for the last ten minutes emerged as a bellow and he stood by the window with the letter still in his hand and enjoyed the joke as he had not enjoyed one in a long time.
Slowly the more sober aspects of the situation filtered through to him and he thought, with some satisfaction, ‘Dammit, it might be the best day’s work he ever did in his life marrying that girl! She’s got all his mother’s idealism pickled in several generations of Eveleigh commonsense. Shall I show this letter to Claire or shall I let well alone? It’s something I shall have to think about damned carefully!’ and he folded the pages, put them back in the envelope and locked it in a drawer of his desk, along with his Will and insurance policies.
He was preoccupied for several days, so much so that Claire mistook his withdrawal for worry about the failure of the new Government to halt the decline in agriculture. As was her custom she challenged him when they were going to bed one night.
‘There’s no sense in worrying yourself silly, Paul,’ she said, for perhaps the hundredth time in the last decade. ‘Farming will bob up just as it always does. That’s the one sure thing about the land. It’s indestructible and indispensable.’
‘Who the devil is worrying?’ he demanded, off guard. ‘Did I say I was particularly worried?’
‘I can always tell, it’s the Tudor look again!’
The ‘Tudor look’ was a family joke. Ikey, the family jester, had once produced a miniature, supposedly by Hillyard, of a long-faced Elizabethan worrier, and pointed out the close resemblance of the portrait to Paul in one of his baffled moods.
‘Ah,’ he said, beginning to brash his teeth vigorously, ‘you’re ’way off course this time, old girl! I wasn’t worrying, just pondering. About the newly-weds!’ He put down his toothbrush and glanced at her humorously. ‘Come to think of it you haven’t had much to say on the subject. The last time one of the family married a tenant’s daughter you sulked for weeks!’
She was long since proof against this kind of gibe and laughed over her shoulder as she climbed into bed. ‘That’s libel,’ she said, ‘and you know it! I began sulking about Ikey marrying Hazel Potter but there were other reasons for maintaining it and I don’t have to remind you of those, do I?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t! It was a guilty conscience about that young squirt up at the camp . . . what was his name again?’
‘You haven’t forgotten his name, you fraud but why worry about newly-weds of their age? Were you thinking of mailing them one of those Marie Stopes books there’s so much talk about?’
He said, slowly, ‘I had a letter from her, Claire, and I’ve been wondering whether or not to pass it on to you. I’ve decided I will. I think you’ll enjoy it as much as I did!’
She had been drowsy for the last hour but she was wide awake now. ‘Give it to me at once! Go on, give it to me!’ and when he protested that it was locked in his office she said, ‘I don’t give a damn where it is! Go and get it this instant, you traitor!’
He fetched it and sat on the edge of the bed watching her read it and any misgivings he might have had disappeared when he saw her stifle a giggle, then a series of giggles. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, laying it down, ‘poor Simon! All those capitals and underlinings! The Movement! Opposition! The WEA! There wouldn’t be any point in sending him Marie Stopes would there? He’s gone and married one, the silly boy!’
‘Now how can you justify that?’ he demanded. ‘I’m all for Simon having a sober wife as a sheet-anchor but don’t tell me any fun and games will go along with it!’
‘Rubbish!’ she said, ‘she gives herself away in the tailpiece. Don’t take that crusading preamble of hers at face value, it’s no more than a smokescreen!’
‘Are you trying to tell me she isn’t in earnest about her determination to make something of the boy?’
‘Oh, I daresay she thinks she is,’ Claire said, ‘but she’s covering up nevertheless and any woman could tell you as much. See here—she’s healthy, Valley-bred and thirty-four. She’s been without a man twelve years and if she’s an Eveleigh she’s no prude! Along comes Simon, young, good-looking but, what’s more important, pliable! Why bless you, she needs him more than he needs her but because of the age gap she has to justify herself! So what does she do? Sets about convincing herself the marriage is near-platonic but you can take it from me that now she’s got him she won’t address herself exclusively to the task of healing sick society!’
She always amused him when she came out with one of these down-to-earth pronouncements and he chuckled as he switched off the light and climbed into bed, saying, ‘The trouble with you is you’ve got a one-track mind and always have had!’ whereupon, not altogether to his surprise she said, ‘Thank God we’re old enough to let the world get on with it and concentrate on essentials,’ and enfolded him in a way that left him in no doubt at all about what she regarded as essential.
Chapter Thirteen
I
That was the season of Rumble Patrick’s disgrace, the time when the long-suffering Headmaster of High Wood decided that a less conventional establishment was required to battle with the young man’s restless sense of humour. Whilst it could not be said that Rumble Patrick made family history by being expelled from school it is certain that his career there ended prematurely, following a letter from the Hea
dmaster suggesting that withdrawal would save everyone concerned a great deal of unpleasantness.
So Rumble came home at seventeen, puzzled but not deflated by the world’s rejection of his efforts to cheer it up and Paul was not surprised by the turn of events. Indeed, the surprising factor was that High Wood had tolerated Rumble so long.
And yet was it all that surprising? From earliest childhood Rumble Patrick Palfrey had been able (and that simultaneously) to bewitch and exasperate his peers and nobody knew this better than Claire, who had been slightly awed by the child ever since the day she had brought him to Shallowford after Hazel Palfrey had been run down and killed by the Army staff car. There was something demoniac about Rumble who was, as Mary once declared, half-cherub, half-poltergeist. It was as though, shortly before his birth, he had been given the rare privilege of assembling his own psychological make-up from material available from both sides of his family and had rejected all but the risible and the bizarre. He had, for example, a broad streak of urchin impudence, the legacy of Ikey’s Thames-side forebears and fused with this was the cheerful contempt for authority that had been a characteristic of the Potter clan for generations. This was by no means all. Woven into his character were the strands of Ikey’s objectiveness, Mother Meg’s pride, Old Tamer’s cussedness and Uncle Smut’s initiative, all subject, it would seem, to a belief that every day was April Fool’s Day. It added up to a most engaging personality but one that offered certain problems to those charged with fitting him for a career in a competitive world.
Paul had sent him to High Wood out of habit. Neither Ikey nor Simon had taken kindly to the credo of the late Doctor Arnold of Rugby, and whereas The Pair had distinguished themselves at games, both had failed the Junior Cambridge examination three times in a row, having taken six years to grind from Second Form to Lower Fifth. With the arrival of Rumble Patrick in 1926, however, High Wood faced an altogether sterner challenge. By the time Rumble was fourteen his explosive energy had settled into a deadly rhythm that expressed itself in volleys of elaborate practical jokes, many of which would, no doubt, become hallowed by tradition but at the time of launching did nothing for the peace of mind of the staff.
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