Copyright & Information
Brother of Daphne
First published in 1914
© Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1914-2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Dornford Yates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
EAN ISBN Edition
1842329693 9781842329696 Print
0755126890 9780755126897 Kindle
0755127102 9780755127108 Epub
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
www.houseofstratus.com
About the Author
Born ‘Cecil William Mercer’ into a middle class Victorian family with many Victorian skeletons in the closet, including the conviction for embezzlement from a law firm and subsequent suicide of his great-uncle, Yates’ parents somehow scraped together enough money to send him to Harrow.
The son of a solicitor, he at first could not seek a call to the Bar as he gained only a third class degree at Oxford. However, after a spell in a Solicitor’s office he managed to qualify and then practised as a Barrister, including an involvement in the Dr. Crippen Case, but whilst still finding time to contribute stories to the Windsor Magazine.
After the First World War, Yates gave up legal work in favour of writing, which had become his great passion, and completed some thirty books. These ranged from light-hearted farce to adventure thrillers. For the former, he created the ‘Berry’ books which established Yates’ reputation as a writer of witty, upper-crust romances. For the latter, he created the character Richard Chandos, who recounts the adventures of Jonah Mansel, a classic gentleman sleuth. As a consequence of his education and experience, Yates’ books feature the genteel life, a nostalgic glimpse at Edwardian decadence and a number of swindling solicitors.
In his hey day, and as testament to his fine writing, Dornford Yates’ work often featured in the bestseller list. Indeed, ‘Berry’ is one of the great comic creations of twentieth century fiction; the ‘Chandos’ titles also being successfully adapted for television. Along with Sapper and John Buchan, Yates dominated the adventure book market of the inter war years.
Finding the English climate utterly unbearable, Yates chose to live in the French Pyrenées for eighteen years, before moving on to Rhodesia (as was), where he died in 1960.
‘Mr Yates can be recommended to anyone who thinks the British take themselves too seriously.’ - Punch
‘We appreciate fine writing when we come across it, and a wit that is ageless united to a courtesy that is extinct’ - Cyril Connolly
Dedication
To Her
who smiles for me, though I essay no jest,
whose eyes are glad at my coming, though I bring her no gift,
who suffers me readily, though I do her no honour.
My Mother
1: Punch and Judy
“I said you’d do something,” said Daphne, leaning back easily in her long chair.
I stopped swinging my legs and looked at her.
“Did you, indeed?” I said coldly.
My sister nodded dreamily.
“Then you lied, darling. In your white throat,” I said pleasantly. “By the way, d’you know if the petrol’s come?”
“I don’t even care,” said Daphne. “But I didn’t lie, old chap. My word is—”
“Your bond? Quite so. But not mine. The appointment I have in Town that day—”
“Which day?” said Daphne, with a faint smile.
“The fête day.”
“Ah!”
It was a bazaar fête thing. Daphne and several others – euphemistically styled workers – had conspired and agreed together to obtain money by false pretences for and on behalf of a certain mission, to wit the Banana. I prefer to put it that way. There is a certain smack about the wording of an indictment. Almost a relish. The fact that two years before I had been let in for a stall and had defrauded fellow men and women of a considerable sum of money, but strengthened my determination not to be entrapped again. At the same time I realized that I was up against it.
The crime in question was fixed for Wednesday or Thursday – so much I knew. But no more. There was the rub. I really could not toil up to Town two days running.
“Let’s see,” I said carelessly, “the fête’s on – er – Wednesday, or Thursday, is it?”
“Which day are you going up to Town?” said Daphne.
I changed my ground.
“The Bananas are all right,” I said, lighting a cigarette.
“They only ate a missionary the other day,” said my sister.
“That’s bad,” said I musingly. “To any nation the consumption of home produce is of vital—”
“We want to make sixty pounds.”
“To go towards their next meal? How much do missionaries cost?”
“To save their souls alive,” said Daphne zealously.
“I’m glad something’s to be saved alive,” said I.
Before she could reply, tea began to appear. When the footman had retired to fetch the second instalment of accessories, I pointed the finger of scorn at the table, upon which he had set the tray.
“That parody emanated from a bazaar,” I said contemptuously.
“It does for the garden,” said my sister.
“It’d do for anything,” said I. “Its silly sides, its crazy legs—”
“Crazy?” cried Daphne indignantly. “It’d bear an elephant.”
“What if it would?” I said severely. “It’s months since we gave up the elephants.”
“Is the kettle ready?”
“It boils not, neither does it sing.”
“For which piece of irreverence you will do something on Thursday.”
“My dear girl,” I said hurriedly, “ if it were not imperative for me to be in Town—”
“You will do something on Thursday.”
I groaned.
“And this,” I said, “this is my mother’s daughter! We have been nursed together, scolded together, dandled in the same arms. If she had not been the stronger of the two, we should have played with the same toys.”
I groaned again. Berry opened his eyes.
“The value of a siesta upon a summer afternoon–” he began.
I cut in with a bitter laugh. “What’s he going to do?” I said.
“Take a stall, of course,” said Daphne.
“Is he?” said Berry comfortably. “Is he? If motoring with Jonah to Huntercombe, and playing golf all day, is not incompatible with taking a stall on Thursday, I will sell children’s underwear and egg cosies with éclat. Otherwise—”
“Golf,” I said, “golf! Why don’t I play golf?”
“I know,” said Berry; “because—”
“Miserable man!” said Daphne.
“Who?” said her husband.
“You.”
Berry turned to me.
“You hear?” he said. “Vulgar abuse. And why?
Simply because a previous engagement denies to me the opportunity of subscribing to this charitable imposition. Humble as would have been my poor assistance, it would have been rendered with a willing heart. But there!” – he sighed – “It may not be. The Bananas will never know, never realize how – By the way, who are the Bananas?”
“The Bananas?” said I. “Surely you know the—”
“Weren’t at Ascot, were they?”
“Not in the Enclosure. No. The bold, bad Bananas are in many ways an engaging race. Indeed, some of the manners and customs which they affect are of a quite peculiar interest. Let us look, brother, for a moment, at their clothing. At the first blush – I use the word advisedly – it would seem that, like the fruit from which they take their name—”
“I thought you’d better do some tricks,” said Daphne, throwing a dark look in my direction.
“Of course,” I said; “the very thing. I’ve always been so good at tricks.”
“I mean it,” said Daphne.
“Of course you do. What about the confidence trick? Can any lady oblige me with a public-house?”
“She means trick-cycling, stupid,” said Berry. “Riding backwards on one wheel while you count the ball-bearings.”
“Look here,” I said, “if Berry could have come and smoked a cigarette, I wouldn’t have minded trying to flick the ash off it with a hunting-whip.”
“Pity about that golf,” mused Berry. “And you might have thrown knives round me afterwards. As it is, you’ll have to recite.”
In a few telling sentences I intimated that I would do nothing of the kind.
“I will appear,” I said at last, “I will appear and run round generally, but I promise nothing more.”
“Nonsense,” said my sister. “I have promised, and I’m not going to let you break my word. You are going to do something definite.”
“Desperate?”
“Definite. You have three days in which to get ready. There’s Jill calling me. We’re going to run over to Barley to whip up the Ashton crowd. D’you think we’ve enough petrol?”
“I don’t even care,” said I.
Daphne laughed softly. Then: “I must go,” she said, getting up. “Give me a cigarette and tell me if you think this dress’ll do. I’m going to change my shoes.”
“If,” said I, producing my cigarette-case, “if you were half as nice as you invariably look—”
“That’s a dear,” she said, taking a cigarette. “And now, good-bye.”
I watched her retreating figure gloomily.
Berry began to recite ‘We are Seven.’
Thursday morning broke cloudless and brilliant. I saw it break. Reluctantly, of course; I am not in the habit of rising at cock-crow. But on this occasion I rose because I could not sleep. When I went to bed on Wednesday night, I lay awake thinking deeply about what I was to do on the morrow. Daphne had proved inexorable. My brain, usually so fertile, had become barren, and for my three days’ contemplation of the subject I had absolutely nothing to show. It was past midnight before I fell into a fitful slumber, only to be aroused three hours and a half later by the sudden burst of iniquity with which two or more cats saw fit to shake the silence of the rose-garden.
As I threw out the boot-jack, I noticed the dawn. And as further sleep seemed out of the question, I decided to dress and go out into the woods.
When I slipped out of Knight’s Bottom into the sunlit road to find myself face to face with a Punch and Judy show, I was not far from being momentarily disconcerted. For a second it occurred to me that I might be dreaming, but, though I listened carefully, I could hear no cats, so I sat down on the bank by the side of the road and prepared to contemplate the phenomenon.
When I say ‘Punch and Judy show’ I am wrong. Although what I saw suggested the proximity of a Punch and a Judy, to say nothing of the likelihood of a show, I did not, as a matter of fact, descry any one of the three. The object that presented itself to my view was the tall, rectangular booth, gaudy and wide-mouthed, with which, until a few years ago, the streets of London were so familiar. Were! Dear old Punch and Judy, how quickly you are becoming a thing of the past! How soon you will have gone the way of Jack-i’-the Green, Pepper’s Ghost, the Maypole, and many another old friend! Out of the light into the darkness. The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and in a little space men shall be content to wonder at your ancient memory as their grandfathers marvelled at that of the frolics of my Lord of Misrule. However.
There was the booth. But that was all. It stood quite alone at the side of the white road. I walked round it. Nothing. I glanced up and down the road, but there was no one in sight. I had been feeling hungry, for it was seven o’clock; but this was better than breakfast, and I returned to the bank. The little red curtains fluttered, as a passing breeze caught them, and I marked how bright and new they looked. It was certainly in good condition – this booth.
“Well?” said a voice.
“Well?” said I.
A pause. A girl’s voice it was: coming from within the booth.
“You seem rather surprised,” said the voice.
“No, no,” I said, “not really surprised. Only a little staggered. You see, I know so few booths.”
“What are you doing here?”
“To be frank, booth, I’m waiting.”
“I’m waiting, too.”
“So?” said I. “I wait, you wait, let us wait, ye shall have been about to see, they would—”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Developments. And you?”
“My breakfast.”
I looked up and down the road. “I don’t see it coming,” I said anxiously. “What’s it look like?”
“Milk. You don’t happen to have any, I suppose?”
I felt in my pockets.
“There, now,” I said, “I must have left it on the piano. I got up rather hurriedly this morning,” I added apologetically.
“Never mind.”
“I’ll tell you what, booth, I’ll go and get some.”
“No, thanks very much. Don’t you bother; it’ll come along presently.”
“Are you sure? This isn’t ‘The Blue Bird.’”
“Yes, it’s all right – really.”
There was another pause. Then: “Hadn’t you better be getting back to breakfast?” said the girl.
“Not much,” said I. “I don’t run up against booths every day. Besides—”
“Besides what?”
“Well, booth, I’m awfully curious.”
“What do you want to know?”
“You’re very good.”
“I didn’t say I’d tell you.”
“I’ll risk that. In a word, why are you?”
“Ah!”
I waited in silence for a few moments. At length: “Suppose,” she said slowly, “suppose a bet had been made.”
“A bet?”
“A bet.”
“Shocking! Go on.”
“Well? Isn’t that enough?”
“Nothing like.”
“I don’t think much of your imagination.”
I raised my eyes to heaven. “A prophet is not without honour,” I quoted.
“Is this your own country?”
“It is.”
“Oh, I say, you’d be the very man!”
“I am,” I said. “Refuse substitutes.”
It gradually appeared that, in a rash moment, she had made some silly wager that she could give a Punch and Judy show on her own in the village of Lynn Hammer and the vicinity. Of course, she had not meant it. She had spoken quite idly, secure in the very impracticability of the thing. But certain evil-disposed persons – referred to mysteriously as ‘they’ – had fastened greedily upon her words, and, waving aside her objection that she had no paraphernalia, deliberately proceeded to provide the same, that she might have no excuse. The booth was run up, the puppets procured. The gentle hint that she wanted to withdraw had been let fall at the exact mom
ent with deadly effect, and – the wicked work was done. She had been motored over and here set down, complete with booth, half an hour ago. They were going to look back later, just to see how she was getting on. The ordeal was to be over and the wager won by six o’clock, and she might have the assistance of a native in her whimsical venture.
“Right up to the last I believe the brutes thought I would cry off,” she said. “I very nearly did, too, when it came to it. Only I saw Peter smiling. It is rather a hopeless position, isn’t it?”
“It was. But now that you’ve got your native—”
“Oh!” she said. Then: “But I’ve got one.”
“Where?”
“He’s getting the milk.”
“I don’t believe he is. Anyway, you can discharge him and take me on. I’ve been out of work for years. Besides, you’ve been sent. In your advent I descry the finger of Providence.”
“I wish I did. What do you mean?”
“This day,” I said, “I am perforce a zealot.”
“A what?”
“A zealot – a Banana zealot. You, too, shall be a zealot. We will unite our zeal, and this day light such a candle—”
“The man’s mad,” she said. “Quite mad.”
I explained. “You see,” I said, “it’s like this. Simply miles away, somewhere south south and by south of us, there are a lot of heathen. They’re called Bananas. I don’t know very much about it, but there seems to be a sort of understanding that we should keep them in missionaries. So every now and then the ‘worker’ push here get up a fête thing and take money off people. Then they find one and send him out. Well, there’s one of these stunts on this afternoon, and I’ve been let in to do something. That’s why I look so pale and interesting. The last day or two I’ve been desperate about it. But now…”
“Now what?”
“If you’d let me help you today, we could take the show to the fête and simply rake it in. It’s a splendid way of winning your bet, too. Oh, booth, isn’t it obvious that you’ve been sent?”
Brother of Daphne Page 1
