Berry Scene

by Dornford Yates

  Hoby’s lads were now in charge of the silent round-about, and Ightham had sent his nephew to cut the padlock and chain from the gate which Withyham had set at the mouth of Romany Lane.

  The fine, old kitchen was gleaming with copper and oak, and the Ighthams fussed about us, pressing viands upon us and keeping our glasses full.

  My sister was regarding the paper.

  “And this will sink him?” she said.

  “It has sunk him,” said I. “I’ll lay you fifty pounds that the chain which George is undoing will never go back. If it does, our solicitors send him a copy of this. And when his solicitors see it, they will explain to him that he has no case.”

  “Can’t he plead duress?”

  “Not without the German to back him. And I hardly think he can count on Von Blodgenbruck’s help. And even then he wouldn’t get home. A man may make an admission, but he doesn’t make an untrue admission because there’s a barrel-organ a furlong away.”

  “Be fair,” said Berry. “Call it a musical box.”

  “Be a Jew’s ’arp, nex’,” said Hoby.

  As the laughter died down, Jonah lifted his glass.

  “I look to Berry,” he said. “First Withyham and then the German. He played them both to perfection. It looked so easy to start with. I mean, I thought Withyham was cracking quite early on. And then he stuck in his toes.”

  “And I couldn’t push him,” said Berry, “for fear he’d suspect a plant. You can’t get away from the fact that Blood-and-Bunk pulled his weight.”

  “’S a dirty dog,” said Hoby. “All them love an’ kisses. ’E meant to ’ave that paper an’ tear it up.”

  “Without a doubt,” said Berry. “And what’s the betting their Grossnesses don’t fetch up?”

  “They probably will,” said Jonah. “Withyham won’t give him a carriage to go to Brooch.”

  (Ightham later reported that in fact they did arrive – to leave on Sunday morning, after a fearful scene. Their Comptroller accompanied them, crouching, because be dared not sit down. The next day Withyham left, and Bluecoat was shut for six months. Not so Romany Lane. In fact, when the gate disappeared, it was never replaced.)

  Our farewells had been said, and we were all in the brougham, which was turning out of the gate, when a voice like a foghorn was lifted calling on the coachman to stop.

  Hoby appeared at the window, cheque in hand.

  “’Ere, wot’s this?” he demanded. “You’ve made it for twenty-five quid.”

  “That’s what we arranged,” said Berry.

  “But I’ve ’ad twenty orf ’im. You only owes me five.”

  Berry leered out of the window.

  “I don’ take bloodsuckers’ money.”

  Hoby took off his hat.

  “I don’ deserve it,” he said. “You earned your corn tonight.”

  “Shove it into the show,” said Berry. “Pin-money for Daisy Bell.”

  Hoby looked down at the ground.

  “You tied me up, sir,” he said. “I ’aven’t got any words, Forty-five quid in one evenin’ – you know, it ain’t right.”

  Daphne put in her oar.

  “From our point of view, Mr Hoby, this evening’s been cheap at the price.”

  Hoby looked up.

  “If you put it like that, lady…”

  “I do, indeed. Mind you come and see us, next time you’re by.”

  “You bet,” said Mr Hoby.

  The brougham rolled on.

  Six days later a parcel, addressed to Daphne, arrived from Brooch. It contained a most beautiful rug, for use in the car. Attached to this was a card—

  With the very respectful compliments of Hoby’s Steam Round-Abouts.

  3

  In Which We Talk With Big James,

  and Daphne Has Eyes to See

  The handsome lease of August was nearly up: our car had been delivered: Fitch had entered our service; and Jonah had left for France, to bring his sister back from a chateau commanding the Loire.

  Daphne and I were sitting over our breakfast: Berry was not yet down.

  “What am I riding, Boy?”

  “Gallant, this morning,” said I. “Is that all right?”

  My sister nodded.

  “I’d like to come back by Blackstone. Falcon says that Margery’s not too good.”

  Margery Kingcome had been our mother’s nursemaid and our own nurse, and now she was living in retirement some nine miles off.

  “Blackstone is damp,” I sighed. “If only she’d stayed in the village, as we tried to make her do…”

  “I know,” said Daphne, “I know. But she is a miller’s daughter, and Bilberry’s got no mill. She’d rather live ten years at Blackstone than twenty at Bilberry.” She glanced at her wrist. “What ever is Berry doing? It’s twenty to ten.”

  With her words, her husband appeared.

  As he helped himself from the sideboard—

  “Last night,” he said, “I had a most singular dream. I dreamt I was a mortgage on a fried-fish shop, which was situate in the precincts of Lambeth Palace itself. Weary of the perfume, the Church Militant sought to foreclose. I was unfolded, perused, dropped, used as a fly-swatter and finally spread before the Primate. Supposing me to be a dog-licence, His Grace signed me and I was sold for seven and six. No kidneys? What an outrage! Never mind, I’ll get home on egg.”

  With a plate, charged after the manner of the Middle Ages, he took his seat.

  “My darling,” said Daphne, “you’ve cut yourself.”

  “Beloved,” said Berry, helping himself to toast, “I cannot tell a lie. I did it – with my little hatchet. Elijah would have been ravished. The blood gushed out upon me.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “It was,” said Berry, “a shocking spectacle. Had a police-officer entered the bathroom, I should have been arrested for attempted suicide. In my agitation, I also dropped the razor and cut myself on the foot. But I seem to be in good health. No shortage of red corpuscles, as far as I saw.”

  “But you did it only last week.”

  “My sweet,” said Berry, attacking his scrambled eggs, “the copper-bottomed miracle is that I don’t do it twice a day. Each time I uncover those weapons – one for each day in the week – I come all over of a tremble. The only trouble is, they don’t seem to freeze the blood.”

  “Are you sure you strop them right?”

  Berry shuddered.

  “I don’t want them any sharper, if that’s what you mean The wonder is my jaw hasn’t dropped.”

  “You must get a razor like Boy’s.”

  Berry shook his head.

  “I’ve tried his. It’s the finest skin-eraser I know. I’d rather have a slice off the joint than erysipelas.”

  “I’m not sure you’re not right,” said I, caressing my chin. “What I go through every morning…”

  “Jonah manages somehow.”

  “Jonah,” said Berry, “has an abnormal skin. He could file his beard down every day, and it wouldn’t leave any trace. If he was to have an injection, they’d have to send for a drill. Oh, no, there’s nothing for it. My dressing-gown, by the way, had better go to Madame Tussaud’s.”

  “What, not your new one?”

  “The same,” said Berry calmly. “It made me think of Omar Khayyám. You remember those deathless lines. ‘The Moving Razor cuts; and, having cut, Moves on…’”

  Calling her maid, Wilson, as fast as her habit would let her, my sister fled.

  “Some years ago,” said Berry, “when I was Caesar’s wife, I used to shave with potsherds. It was most economical. When one got blunt, you dropped it, and then you had three or four. Of course you had to watch your step. There used to be a fresco at Pompeii of Julius using the bathroom after me. It was called The night I overtrod the Ceramics.”

  “I’ve sent for a new one,” I said. “It’s just come out. They say you can use it in the dark.”

  Berry laughed bitterly.

  “I can use mine in
the dark,” he said, “But I’m not going to.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” I said. “The presumption—”

  “All right,” said Berry. “You try it. If, after one calendar month you look less like a gargoyle afflicted with the King’s Evil—”

  “That’ll do, Heidelburg.”

  After a long look, Berry protruded his tongue.

  I rose to my feet.

  “Permit me to remind you,” I said, “that the horses have been ordered for half-past ten.”

  Forty-five minutes later, we were riding over the forest to the pretty hamlet of Gamecock, which lay, seven miles from White Ladies, snug in a fold of the greenwood that kept it from curious eyes.

  Our way was a lovely way – by heath and glade and water and gravel road; and the majesty of the timber, the sweetness of the prospects, the union of Husbandry and Nature – above all, the comfortable air of stability lifted up all our hearts. Progress or no, it was clear that this most goodly heritage could never be scathed; that, slowly but surely, Tradition had made it safe; that, wars or rumours of wars, this would endure – the same yesterday, today and for ever, the English countryside.

  But for a milk-float, we had the world to ourselves, till we rounded Holy Brush, to see a gypsy encampment down in the dell below.

  Our appearance occasioned a flurry.

  Two children went flying, a giant of a man strode leisurely out of view, and a woman came lightly towards us, over the sward.

  That she had been sent to delay us was perfectly clear.

  Signing to Daphne to stay, Berry rode past the woman and up to the camp. And I, with him.

  The man we had seen was standing in the mouth of a tent.

  “Where’s your pass?” said Berry.

  “I need no pass,” said the other, folding his arms. “I came last night and I am going today.”

  (Without a verderer’s pass, no man, be he peer or ploughboy, might set up his camp in the forest for more than forty-eight hours.)

  Berry looked round.

  “You have been here at least three days. The ground shows that. And the traces which you will leave will remain for three months. All others are cleanly people, but whatever you touch, you foul. That is why you are made to move – that Nature may be able to repair the horrid damage you do.”

  His words were justified. The dell, which had been so lovely, was now a sordid place. Bushes were scorched and broken, old tins and filthy rags were choking the little rill, and a chain about a young beech-tree had bruised and broken the bark.

  Berry continued slowly.

  “Three weeks ago you stood before the Riding Hood Bench, The magistrates gave you the benefit of the doubt. It is clear that they made a mistake; for your action, when I appeared, was out that of an innocent man.”

  “I earn my living,” said the other.

  “You could, but you don’t,” said Berry. “You could earn an honest living with any man. But there’s no health in you, Lewis, and that’s the truth.” He glanced at his watch. “It now eleven-fifteen, and I’ll give you two hours’ law. Then I shall tell the verderer what I have found.”

  “Curse your law,” said the other.

  “Very good,” said Berry. “I’ll tell him in a quarter of an hour.”

  He turned and rode back to my sister, with me behind.

  “Morning, Mrs Lewis,” he said. I saw the woman start. “You must try and make your husband see reason. He’s a first-rate tinman, you know; and if he’d stick to his last, he’d do very well. But, if he will break the law – well, one day the law will break him.”

  After a long look, the woman returned to Daphne.

  “His heart is honest,” she said, “but he has not the eyes to see. But your sight is keen and pure as the wind on the top of a hill.”

  Daphne raised her eyebrows.

  “My husband is very much wiser than you or I. You and your man would do well to hear what he says. What were you saying about my seeing the country?”

  “I bade you lift up your eyes, because this day you shall see the countryside.”

  “That is all?”

  “That is enough.”

  I held up a shilling.

  “Tell all,” said I, “to turn this to half a crown.”

  The woman covered her eyes.

  Then—

  “I will not lie,” she said. “I can see no farther than that.”

  I put away the shilling and handed her half a crown.

  “That for honesty.”

  She took the coin and bit it – a common fashion then, to be sure that the coin was real.

  “You are good people,” she said. “I wish you well.”

  She turned to go back to the dell, and we went on our way to Gamecock, taking another road.

  “Hopeless,” said Berry. “That man’s a desperate poacher – in rather plainer language, a common thief. He could earn big money as a tinman, but he doesn’t like work. But he does like the taste of pheasant. And he can see no reason why he should work and why he should not eat pheasant. In other words, he’s an outlaw: and one of these days he’ll do a keeper in.”

  (Berry was among the prophets: Lewis was hanged three years later, for shooting a keeper dead.)

  “I’m sorry for the woman,” said Daphne. “She has to do what she’s told.”

  Ten minutes later, we rode into Gamecock’s precincts and up to the forge.

  The smith, Big James, was a very good friend of ours. More. He was a beautiful farrier, and had always shod our horses for twenty years. And the forge was the prettiest thing – with a mighty horse-shoe portal, and an aged wistaria hanging the beams with purple to show that the craft was royal.

  Berry took Daphne down, and as George came up for the horses, Big James came out of the forge.

  For a moment he stood, blinking.

  Then—

  “God bless my soul, it’s Miss Daphne.”

  “Come to thank you, Big James, for shoeing the greys.”

  The fine fellow laughed.

  “I’ll allow they wanted humouring.”

  “I know how long it took you. And they were perfectly shod.”

  Big James coloured with pleasure.

  “Thank you, ma’am. But it’s nice to see you again. An’ Mas’rs Berry an’ Boy. It’s like old days – when you used to blow the bellows, and Mas’r Berry would strike.”

  “Happy old days, Big James.”

  “So they was, Miss Daphne. An’ Mas’r Jonathan?”

  “Very well, thank you. He’s bringing Miss Jill from France. How’s Fanny?”

  “Go you an’ see her, Miss Daphne, an’ she shall speak for herself.” A whinny made him look round. “Why, Mermaid, lass, and Gallant…”

  He stepped to make much of the horses; and the four of them squabbled for his favour – as rare a tribute as ever a man was paid.

  That picture has stayed with me: it was matter for statuary. Big James, in his leather apron, lifting his valiant arms, and standing proud and square as an English oak; George, slim and spruce and belted, calling the horses to order and seeming small of stature beside the smith; and the four, fine heads together – two bays, a roan and a chestnut – eyes flashing, ears pricked, wide nostrils blowing sweet breath, rendering unto the master the things that were his.

  As he turned away, towards us—

  “Listen, Big James,” said my sister. “Will you make me a garden gate?”

  “That I will, Miss Daphne. You’ve only to draw it out.”

  “To hang in a wall,” said Berry. “To close a decent gap that has never been closed before. It is to be purely obstructive. A wrought-iron nuisance, Big James. That’s what the lady wants. Of course, if you could make it dangerous…”

  The blacksmith laughed.

  “It shall comfort the eye, Mas’r Berry. I’ll lay to that. Wrought-iron in a wall, and the greenery showing through. That can be very pleasing, as madam knows.” He pointed into the village. “There’s one such at Mulberry Corner
that’s being sold up today. Round the back of the house, in an old brick wall. An’ the green o’ the woods beyond – it’s a delicate sight. Walk down and view it, Mas’r Berry, before you go.”

  “He’s only being tiresome,” said Daphne. “I’ll draw the design to scale, and I’ll send you the measurements up.”

  “Keep it, Miss Daphne. An’ I’ll come over next Sunday and see the place for myself. An’ then you shall give me the drawing – it’s better so. But do you visit the cottage, to look at that gate. It’s all corrupted now; but it’s beauty, still.”

  “Where is it exactly, Big James?”

  “Last house o’ the village, ma’am. Old Miss Birchup, she died without makin’ a will. Ninety-eight, she was, an’ none of her people left. So the Crown takes all. They’re selling the stuff today. Not that there’s anything there, but it’s got to be sold. I could have done with the chair, but Akers is after that.”

  “Who’s Akers?” said I.

  “He keeps The Stag, Mas’r Boy, an’ he’s money to burn. There’s been some changes here in the last twelve months.”

  “We’ll go and see Fanny,” said Daphne, “and then we’ll look at the gate.”

  “Who’s that lad?” said Berry. “Can he give George a hand?”

  “That he can,” said the smith. He raised his voice. “Horses, Billy.” The boy sprang up. “He’s simple, sir, but the horses like him for that. Shall they have a little water?”

  “A mouthful, please,” said Berry. “We shan’t be long.”

  We visited Big James’ daughter, that kept his tiny home: and then we walked down to the cottage, to look at the gate.

  A notice-board hung on the fence – SALE BY AUCTION THIS DAY AT TWO O’CLOCK, and doors and windows were open, although there was nobody there.

  We passed through the tiny garden and round to the back of the house.

  Big James was right – it had been a lovely gate, and how it had come to be hung there, I could not think. It might well have admitted to some Italian pleasance, for the design was noble and the workmanship very fine. But rust had done the evil that rust can do, and the gate had put on corruption before its time.

  “And there’s a pity,” said Berry. “That was a work of art. And how in the world did it get here?”