Peace Breaks Out

by Angela Thirkell

  Martin laughed and said “No more than usual.”

  “And it’s not your leg,” said Rose. “I suppose it’s Sylvia.”

  Martin looked at her with reproach and appeal mingled.

  “Well, I’ll have to drag it out of you,” said Rose. “Won’t she marry you?”

  “I haven’t asked her,” said Martin.

  “Ask her then,” said Rose.

  “I can’t now,” said Martin.

  “Good God, my dear boy,” said Rose, who was at least two years older than Martin, “one can always ask. Have a little sense.”

  “I went up to the Temple to fetch Sylvia for squash,” said Martin, “and David was holding her hand.”

  “My dear boy, even Othello wouldn’t have worried about that,” said Rose. “Did you ever know David when he wasn’t holding someone’s hand, or kissing it? He will do it once too often. But don’t worry; it won’t be with Sylvia.”

  “I behaved like a cad,” said Martin with gloomy relish. “I heard them talking and I didn’t try not to listen.”

  “We all do that,” said Rose. “Don’t be so silly.”

  “It was what they were saying,” said Martin.

  “Well, what were they saying?” asked Rose, never raising her voice or quickening her lazy speech, though she was longing to smack Martin.

  “They were talking about children,” said Martin, his voice hard, his eyes averted from his cousin.

  “A stinking subject,” said Rose. “Little beasts, getting all the oranges and cod-liver oil and free this and that and Saturday morning cinemas, God blast them, and thinking they are important. I wish our old Nannie had the handling of them. ‘Eat what’s on your plate or you’ll go to bed till you do’ was her method. And we all adored her.”

  “Not like that,” said Martin. “It was about how many children they were going to have.”

  “Look here, Martin,” said Rose. “If you are going crackers, do it quickly and get it over. Why on earth shouldn’t Sylvia and David discuss the size of their families? I’ll tell you here and now that when I marry I’ll have three children as fast as possible and that’s the end. My dear boy, one must look ahead a bit now.”

  “It wasn’t the size of their families; it was their family,” said Martin, examining with great interest a lady-bird who was walking up his coat sleeve.

  It would have given Rose a good deal of pleasure to pick up a chair and hit Martin over the head with it, but it would not be sporting to attack a cousin with a limp who thought his heart was broken, for it was now abundantly plain to her that David had been at his tricks again. That he was in love with Sylvia, or she with him, Rose did not for a moment believe. She knew her David too well, and her considerable worldly experience told her that Sylvia might have been dazzled by David, but had not for a moment thought of loving him. In fact she doubted whether Sylvia had yet thought of loving anybody.

  “I agree,” said Martin, in a careless way, “that children are an infernal nuisance. But,” he added, steering the lady-bird in the direction it didn’t want to go, “I’ve been thinking lately that a few little chaps of one’s own about the place wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

  “You’ve been going to the Barchester Odeon too much,” said Rose coldly. “If you want to get married and cut John’s boy out of the place that’s reasonable, and it’s high time you did, or Emmy will bring her cows into the house. If you want to marry Sylvia, ask her, you soft gobbin. The girl can’t jump down your throat.”

  “I shouldn’t have any chance against David,” said Martin, though not quite so despairingly.

  “Good God, have I got to spell everything for you in words of one letter?” said Rose. “David can’t help exerting charm and you know that as well as I do. But girls are such fools. Poor Mary nearly didn’t marry John at all, just because David kissed her at your seventeenth birthday dance.”

  “David kissed Mary?” said Martin, to whom the idea of uncle David having kissed his aunt by marriage before she was even engaged seemed at the moment like a confirmation of all his fears.

  “Ask Agnes,” said Rose. “And don’t be an ass. Don’t worry about David; I’ll do that. Just concentrate on Sylvia and don’t be a sentimental fool; and stop being sorry for yourself. It’s tea-time.”

  She got up, gave Martin a not unkindly pat on the shoulder and walked away. Martin told the lady-bird that its house was on fire and its children at home, but the lady-bird said that it was living at the Butlin Insect Holiday Camp and its children were all at the cinema, and anyway Martin appeared to be taking it for its wife who was away with her mother over the week-end and he would thank Martin not to move his arm so much. Martin gently removed it onto a leaf, which annoyed the lady-bird so much that it voted labour at once.

  The whole party now began to gather for tea. Lady Graham had passed her afternoon very comfortably discussing various repairs and changes with the old housemaid Bertha and visiting the nurseries where she and Martin’s father and John and David had played, quarrelled, ridden on the rocking-horse, turned on the Polyphone or monster musical box, and kept dormice and canaries; where her children, visiting their grandparents, had done much the same; and had agreed with Bertha that it was high time Master Martin married. There was nothing, said Bertha, she would like more than to be carrying trays up to the nursery again. Lady Graham, remembering the house-splitting disputes between her children’s nurse and the kitchen about trays, and how Bertha would have died sooner than demean herself to do work which belonged to Bessie the third housemaid or to Ivy the nurserymaid, said how delicious that would be and did Bertha remember where those old red damask curtains were that used to be in Lady Emily’s bedroom. She also had a nice gossiping talk with her daughter Emmy, who had held aloof from the guests, keeping a kind of daylight vigil over the Jersey, but had kindly come in for tea.

  Anne and Clarissa were the last to arrive, as they had found a common bond in poetry, and had both learnt Omar Khayyam by heart, which seemed a very good foundation for eternal friendship. While they quoted at each other Clarissa had made several more daisy chains, and these she distributed among her friends and relations at the tea-table, who resigned themselves amiably to sitting garlanded like sacred cows in India, as Leslie major said. The vicar wondered if one ought to call cows sacred on the Sabbath-day, but by that time Clarissa had lightly thrown a daisy-chain over his head and he had to thank her.

  “And the longest one for uncle David,” said Clarissa, putting the chain carelessly round her uncle’s neck and slightly disarranging his hair.

  David stroked his hair back rather pettishly.

  “Never mind, darling, there isn’t really much there,” said Clarissa, who was still standing behind him looking down on the top of his head.

  Luckily no one overheard this remark but Rose, who laughed a very small, low-toned laugh. David, unwilling to recognise the fact that his niece Clarissa had put a public affront upon him, swallowed his mortification and talked to Leslie major about cricket.

  “Oh, Martin,” said Sylvia. “I think Mr. Bostock’s idea about the new central heating in the church is splendid. There’s plenty of room for a furnace in that little room under the chancel steps where the gardening things and hand barrow whatever its name is I mean the thing you wheel coffins on live, and then there could be a pipe running right along the Rushwater pew.”

  “Splendid,” said Martin, smiling pleasantly, but not with the enthusiasm Sylvia had expected.

  “One of my earliest recollections is how cold that pew was in winter,” said David. “Nurse always put my gaiters on for church and on Christmas Day I took the nursery nail-scissors with me and cut all the buttons off.”

  There was some laughter, but David had an uneasy feeling that no one really cared and that he was not being appreciated. Before he could do anything about it Lady Graham, looking benignly yet searchingly round the table, asked Leslie major where his brother was.

  “I don’t know, aunt Agnes,” said Le
slie major. “When I came down to play squash he was on the roof.”

  “Oh, Lady Graham,” said Anne, “he was going to climb that little tower thing with the weathercock on it.”

  The whole company at once realised that Leslie minor, who had never been known to miss any meal, had fallen off the turret and was lying spread-eagled on the leads with all his limbs broken and his head split in two.

  “I’d better go and look,” said Robin, pushing his chair back with a horrible feeling of guilt, for the Leslie boys, though in their cousin’s home, were nominally under his charge in term time.

  “You can’t climb with that foot of yours,” said Martin, also feeling a horrid sense of responsibility. “I’ll go.” And he got up.”

  “You can’t climb either with that leg of yours,” said George Halliday, actuated less by philanthropic motives than by a wish to shine in Lady Graham’s eyes. “Let me go, Lady Graham. I’ll search every inch of the roof, I swear.”

  The vicar, also much concerned for the fate of a nephew of Lady Graham’s, suggested ringing the church bell. It might, he said, attract the lad’s notice.

  “More likely to bring the Home Guard out,” said David. “They haven’t got used to being out of work yet.”

  “Yes, do go, George,” said Lady Graham. “Only do be careful when you go up the little staircase that goes up to the leads, because I know there is a hole in the carpet and you might catch your foot in it. I saw it to-day and spoke to Siddon about it.”

  “I swear I’ll be most awfully careful, Lady Graham,” said George, and like a marquis of the ancien régime on his way to the guillotine walked with head proudly erect to the door, which was opened at the same moment in a disconcerting and baffling way, and Siddon came in, rather squashing George behind the door.

  “I thought you’d want some more hot water, my lady,” she said. “And the other young gentleman wants to know if he can have the honeycomb if you’ve done with it. It’s the last I have, my lady.”

  “That great idiot my young brother,” said Leslie major (who had shown no anxiety about his minor’s fate), hastily scraping the rest of the honeycomb onto his plate. “Tell him it’s all gone, Siddy.”

  “Do you know where he is then?” asked Martin.

  “In my room, Mr. Martin,” said Siddon. “I was sitting at my tea and there was a pair of legs outside the window and he’d climbed down from the roof by the drainpipe, my lady, as black as a sweep he was. So I said he must have a good wash in the scullery and then I’d give him some tea. He’s just Mr. David over again, always up to some sort of mischief.”

  Rose laughed in a detached way.

  “David was a dreadful boy, wasn’t he, Siddy,” she said.

  But although Rose was a near relation of the family Siddon was not going to discuss her Mr. David before the younger generation, so she merely smiled at Rose in an I could an if I would way and went back to the housekeeper’s room. George sat down again.

  “That was very naughty of him,” said Lady Graham mildly. “And poor Mr. Dale must have felt quite worried,” at which George Halliday and the vicar, who had both made useful suggestions, felt murder in their hearts. “I think, David, we ought to start by six, or a little earlier. And now, Mr. Bostock, will you be very kind and go over to the church with me, if it isn’t too often for you in one day. I do so want to see your plans for the central heating, because darling mamma will want to know everything.”

  The vicar wanted to say that no one could go too often to church who had the pleasure of escorting Lady Graham, but it didn’t sound quite convincing in that form, so he contented himself with describing his central heating plan at great length and saying what a charming person Miss Halliday was and how intelligent.

  “And she really seemed to know as much about cows as your eldest daughter, Lady Graham,” he added.

  “Darling Emmy. She was christened and confirmed here,” said Lady Graham. “It was so lucky, because the Bishop was away at an Economic conference at the time and we had a perfectly charming Bishop whose name I have quite forgotten.”

  The vicar wondered for a moment if Lady Graham meant Oecumenical, but came to the conclusion that so exquisite a being could not err, and that it was more than probable that a man like the present Bishop of Barchester should have gone shoving himself into Economic conferences. In which he was perfectly right, for the Bishop in addition to his many other gross defects thought that he understood finance, and had made several very ill-advised statements in the House of Lords, much to the annoyance of his party.

  “Darling Papa’s grave looks so peaceful,” said Lady Graham, looking with tender eyes at the sweetbriar hedge.

  The vicar said that all graves had that wonderful look of peace. Of peace, he repeated.

  “Except the ones that are covered with horrid little spiky chips of marble all over,” said Lady Graham, roused by the thought to what was for her considerable vehemence. “They must be most uncomfortable. I shall pick a few pieces of sweetbriar for mamma. Will you have one, Mr. Bostock?”

  The vicar reverently received the sweetbriar from her hand.

  “I shall treasure it,” he said, too overcome to say more.

  “It doesn’t last long in water,” said Lady Graham, “but if you press it till it is dry it lasts quite a long time. I had a piece pressed in my prayer book till it fell out and got lost. But you don’t have a prayer book, I expect. I mean you wouldn’t need one, knowing it all so well by heart, except of course the parts that one doesn’t often meet. And now you shall explain the whole of the central heating to me before we go.”

  Robin, relieved about the fate of Leslie minor, now took possession of Anne, with whom he had not had much talk. They had news to exchange. Robin of the school, Anne of pastoral life. Then they wondered what the voting next week would bring forth and whether Sir Robert would get in, Anne said she almost hoped he wouldn’t, because he wouldn’t really mind so dreadfully, but Mr. Adams would be so dreadfully disappointed if he didn’t. Then Robin told Anne as a great secret that Miss Banks had been sacked and was going to leave at the end of the term, having alienated everybody, even Miss Hampton and Miss Bent at Adelina Cottage, who had loudly denounced her as not being able to take her liquor like a man.

  Anne said she thought that anyone Miss Hampton and Miss Bent didn’t like must be exceedingly nasty. And as the ladies of Adeline Cottage were noted for the catholicity of their friendships, Robin thought that Anne was coming on nicely in knowledge of the world.

  “And one more quite terrifically secret secret, as Miss Bingham would say,” said Robin.

  “Clarissa says terrifically too,” said Anne. “I expect she picked it up from Miss Bingham. I think Miss Bingham is very nice, don’t you, Robin? Not really frightening a bit.”

  “If she doesn’t frighten you, that’s all right,” said Robin. “I must admit that she frightens me a little, though she is very amusing. I feel she is about a hundred years older than I am.”

  “I wonder if David is frightened of her,” said Anne.

  “I expect he is used to her,” said Robin. “She is extraordinarily vital, though she speaks so quietly. I shouldn’t think she ever feels tired.”

  Anne had the same feeling, that Rose Bingham would always be at the top of her cool, self-confident, poised form.

  “She would be as funny as hell all the time,” she said absently.

  “Good Lord! my girl, what language you have been picking up!” said Robin. “This comes of living among cows.”

  “Oh, no!” said Anne, distressed that Robin should so misjudge her kind hosts. “Martin and Emmy aren’t a bit like that. It was something David said to Sylvia.”

  “If I don’t catch those boys, they’ll be digging a tunnel to Australia, or stealing an aeroplane and flying to the North Pole,” said Robin. “I must look for them. Come on.”

  Rose Bingham, accompanied by Clarissa, paid her visit to Mrs. Siddon, showed the photographs of her sister Hermione Tadpole�
��s babies, and was told it was high time she found a nice husband like Lord Tadpole.

  “Wait a little longer, Siddy,” said Rose, “and I may have a surprise for you,” with which oracular words she shook hands warmly with the housekeeper and went back to the morning room, Clarissa at her heels.

  “Look here, Clarissa,” said Rose, blowing some cigarette smoke away, “you mustn’t be so cattish to David in public. It won’t do.”

  “If you mean saying his hair is thin on the top, it is,” said Clarissa. “One doesn’t usually see the tops of people’s heads, and when I looked at his I couldn’t help saying it, because really, Rose, he is quite horrible.”

  “Go on,” said Rose.

  “I can’t quite explain,” said Clarissa, coming and plumping herself down on a pouffe at Rose’s feet, “but he seems rather old to be showing off so much.”

  “Go on,” said Rose.

  “Well, you know what I mean,” said Clarissa. “He is funny about people when they can’t answer back. And he was beastly to Anne this afternoon. That’s why I said about his hair.”

  “How was he beastly?” said Rose.

  “It doesn’t sound like anything when you say it,” said Clarissa, wrinkling her pretty brow in her efforts to explain, “but I’d been standing up to him—”

  “You had been very impertinent to him,” said Rose, merely stating a fact.

  “Only because he had been impertinent to me first,” said Clarissa. “And he didn’t like it, so he tried to make me nasty to Anne and the dreadful part is that I nearly was. And he tried to make us jealous of each other just for fun, which I think was horrid and mean and terrifically despiseworthy,” said Clarissa vehemently.

  Rose said nothing. Then she lighted another cigarette.

  “David is becoming intolerable,” she said again merely as a statement of fact. “He has always been bone selfish—uncle Henry used to say so, though David was his own son—and he is bone-spoilt. And if he isn’t careful he will be a bone-nuisance in a few years and bone-unpopular. Clarissa, you must not be impertinent to David. I am going to give him a lesson that he will never forget to the end of his life, because I shall take exceedingly good care that he doesn’t.”