Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie

by Nancy Mitford

  Hardly had Paul read so far when Bobby came back into the room, shut the door and settled himself down by the fire in the evident anticipation of a good gossip.

  ‘Look here, old top,’ he said, ‘put down great-grandmamma for a few minutes and listen to a very natty piece of news. No, really, something too incredible is going to happen.’

  ‘Oh, is it? What?’

  ‘My cousin Michael Lewes is coming to stay here tomorrow for a fortnight.’

  ‘What is there incredible about that? Your sister told me in the car that all your aunts and uncles and cousins were coming for Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, didn’t you know? Why, Michael left England three years ago and got a post in Cairo simply because of Amabelle, because she refused to marry him. She was the love of his life. He’s only been home for exactly a week, and now he’ll find himself in the next house to hers – you must say it’s pretty odd. They’re bound to meet.’

  ‘They may not.’

  ‘Likely tale! I shall certainly make it my business to see that they do,’ he added mischievously, giving Paul the benefit of that smile with which he had already launched, as it were, a thousand ships.

  ‘Good gracious,’ said Paul suddenly, forgetting to smile back and shutting up Lady Maria’s journal with a bang. ‘Lord Lewes. Yes, of course I remember all about it now. I’d no idea he was any relation to you though.’

  ‘My first cousin. Father’s sisters all married well, as it happens, which leaves me quite nicely connected.’

  ‘You’re a damned little snob.’

  ‘I know; I glory in it.’

  ‘Oh, you do, do you? Tell me some more about your cousin though. How old is he now?’

  ‘Michael is thirty-two or-three I suppose. Amabelle’s what? Nearly forty-five should you think? He was crazy about her, I believe, begged and implored her to marry him, but the old girl had too much sense to do that. And anyway she was frightfully bored by the whole affair. I don’t wonder either. Michael’s awfully sweet, you know, but not exactly a hero of romance.’

  ‘What did his people think of it?’ asked Paul.

  ‘His father and mother are both dead, you know. My mother got hold of the wrong end of the stick, as she always does, and thought that poor darling Amabelle was a scheming old tart trying to lure him into her clutches. But Michael settled the whole thing by getting another post abroad when he saw that she was determined not to marry him.’

  ‘D’you think he’ll have got over it by now?’

  ‘Would one ever get over being in love with Amabelle?’ asked Bobby sententiously. ‘I doubt it. I don’t imagine Michael would anyway; he took it very hard at the time; besides, he’s a sentimental old thing. It’s lucky you happen to be an author, Paul, my boy. This house is going to be a perfect hotbed of copy for the next week or two. Another frightfully funny thing has happened, by the way. Mamma has left cards on Amabelle. I can only suppose she has no idea it’s that Mrs. Fortescue.’

  ‘How d’you know she has?’

  ‘I’ve been over at Mulberrie Farm the whole afternoon playing bridge with Jerome and the Monteaths.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s your Eton friend. I thought as much. How does Amabelle like the country?’

  ‘Loathes it, of course. She’s so bored that she’s taken to going out farming every day with old Major Stanworth. It’s frightfully funny, I must say, to hear her talking about Runner Ducks and Middle Whites. Apparently she helped to accouche a cow yesterday.’

  ‘I must go over and see her tomorrow. How am I going down with your mamma?’ asked Paul, rather nervously, glancing at the precious journal.

  ‘Quite O.K. so far. She likes the look of you she told me. But for heaven’s sake keep off the subject of hunting, or I know you’ll put your foot in it. Oh, and by the way, she’s going to talk to you about a daily programme for me this hols., so mind you arrange that we finish all the work in the morning, then we can get out after lunch and spend our afternoons at Mulberrie Farm under the pretext of riding or playing golf. D’you see the idea? I’m going back there now – you coming?’

  ‘I don’t think so, thank you. Now that I am here I’m longing to get down to the journal. It looks too entrancing. Does your mother know you’re going out?’

  ‘No, of course she doesn’t, you loopy old thing. What d’you suppose? I said good night to her ages ago, and what’s more I’ve put a lay figure in my tiny bed in case she comes to look – it’s been done before. Leave this window open for me, will you? – so long, then, see you in the morning.’

  He jumped out of the window, and a few moments later a car was heard starting up in the road outside. Paul continued his perusal of the journal.

  Jan. 3rd, 1878.

  Went out in the donkey chaise accompanied by Edward and his dear children, who are here paying us a very happy visit. We took some pudding to poor old Mrs. Skittle; she is not, I fear, likely to be with us much longer, poor old soul, and she herself reminded me of the country proverb, ‘A green Christmas makes a fat churchyard.’ This Christmas has certainly been the greenest that I can remember for years past, and Josiah says the same. (N.B. – The soup was not very warm at dinner last night; this must not occur again, as it makes darling Josiah very sad.)

  Little Hudson, darling Edward’s eldest boy, looked so very pretty today in his blue dress and little pink ribbon shoes. As we approached Compton Bobbin down the oak avenue I said to him, with a wave of my hand, ‘This will be yours one day, my darling,’ thinking it right that he should learn his responsibilities thus early in life. He looked at me earnestly for a while, clasped together his little pink hands, and said: ‘Then I must be very, very good.’ This reminded me so much of the dear Queen who, when first told that she was in the succession to the throne, said with charming resolution, ‘I will be good.’ Heaven knows that she has kept her word.

  Jan. 8th, 1878.

  Heard today from darling Edward, who left us on Tuesday in anticipation of this happy event that dearest Feodora has been brought to bed of a lovely little girl. This makes the fourth addition to their family. Heaven grant that in time they will have a quiverful. The news came by the telegraph, and as soon as I had imparted it to darling Josiah I went up to the nursery, where little Hudson, Mildred and Millicent sat at breakfast. I nodded to Mrs. Darcy, their most excellent nurse, who was made aware by this signal of the news that I had received. I then sat down next to Hudson and said: ‘Darling, the storks have brought you a little sister.’ ‘Where?’ he cried, clapping his hands in glee. ‘Does mamma know?’ At this remark Mrs. Darcy and I had great difficulty in keeping our countenances.

  Jan. 16th, 1878.

  Alas, the little daughter born last week to Feodora passed away from us on Tuesday night. This dreadful news reached me yesterday morning by the telegraph, and for the rest of the day I was too much upset to write in my journal. Poor darling Edward, and poor, poor Feo, only a mother can guess at what she must be feeling now. Edward wrote me a dear note to say that he had been able to baptize the little one, which he did with the names Mary Ursula Christian Margaret, so I am thankful to think that the beloved little remains will be able to repose in sanctified ground. He tells me that dearest Feo is still very weak and most dreadfully sad, but beautifully resigned. She is allowed to sit up for a few hours every day and occupies herself embroidering a little shroud. How inscrutable are the ways of Providence, that He should give us this dear one to add brightness to our lives for a few days, only to take her from us in so short a space. I went up to the nursery as soon as I had received the news and found, as before, the three babies sitting at breakfast. Mrs. Darcy, observing my black garments, knew the worst at once. I sat down next to baby Hudson and told him that his new sister had gone to Heaven. ‘Did the storks come and fetch her away?’ he asked innocently. ‘No, my darling, it was the angels who took her away,’ I replied.

  8

  The next morning after breakfast, which took place punctually at the unalluring hour of half-past
eight, Lady Bobbin sent for Paul. Sleepy and rather unnerved, he found his way to her study, a room which so exactly, in every respect, resembled a man’s typical smoking-room that Paul looked round for the pipe rack without which it did not seem complete. Lady Bobbin herself, dressed in a riding habit, flannel shirt and soft felt hat, looked almost human. She was one of those women who are only tidy and presentable when wearing some kind of uniform. She sat bolt upright on a hard chair and indicated another to Paul.

  ‘I thought, Mr. Fisher,’ she said, tapping her booted leg briskly with a riding whip, ‘that it would be a good plan if you and I together were to arrange a kind of daily programme for Roderick to carry out during the time that you are with us. I am a great believer in strict routine for young people, especially now that they have these ridiculously long holidays, and Roderick badly needs discipline, as you will very soon find out.’

  Here she paused, looked at her watch, then out of the window, and finally at Paul, as though expecting him to make some comment.

  ‘I think you are right. He evidently does need discipline. It seems to me that he is the sort of boy who should spend a great deal of time out in the open,’ said Paul, remembering Bobby’s little plan for bridge parties at Mulberrie Farm. ‘Plenty of exercise and fresh air would do him a world of good, both mentally and physically; nothing like it for building character, you know. In fact,’ he went on, warming to his subject, ‘in all the years that I have had boys in my charge I have adhered to the motto, Mens sana in corpore sano. I have never found a better.’

  ‘There is no better,’ said Lady Bobbin approvingly. The tutor was making an excellent impression. ‘If more young people would realize that we could do away with a great deal that is bad nowadays, and especially this unhealthy modern art, I feel certain.’

  ‘I think we could, too.’

  ‘Some of these artists, you know (if you could call them artists, which, personally, I don’t) would be different beings after a day’s hunting, do them all the good in the world, take their minds off those hideous atrocities that they pretend to like. Diseased minds, that’s what they’ve got, diseased minds in unhealthy bodies.’

  ‘Poor wretches,’ said Paul, in tones of withering contempt.

  ‘However, that’s beside the point,’ said Lady Bobbin, again looking at her watch. ‘Now I had very much hoped that Roderick would be getting four or five days a week with hounds these Christmas holidays, but of course the wretched foot and mouth has stopped all that for the present (although between ourselves I have an idea that, if there are no fresh outbreaks before the new year, we shall be able to carry on just as usual in January). Luckily, however, we are not prevented from hacking on the estate, so you and he will be able to help keep the hunt horses fit. Then I shall be arranging one or two shoots for him, nothing much, you know, as we have given up rearing since my husband’s death, but just rough days. Besides that there is quite a nice little golf course outside Woodford, and Major Stanworth, who is farming near here, has a squash court, so as you see there will be no lack of sport for you. Now would you be so good as to cast your eye over this piece of paper on which I have written out a daily programme for Roderick, subject, of course, to your approval, Mr. Fisher.’

  ‘Let me see, let me see,’ said Paul, fixing on to his nose a pair of pince-nez through which, in fact, he could hardly see anything at all, but which he felt to be in keeping with his new character as tutor. (Amabelle had with great difficulty restrained him from making his appearance at Compton Bobbin arrayed in a platinum blonde wig, moustache and eyebrows.)

  ‘Ah! Hum! Hem! Yes! “Breakfast at eight-thirty, work from nine to eleven, ride from eleven to one.” That won’t do, you know, Lady Bobbin, won’t do at all, I fear. Let me see now, “luncheon at one o’clock, ride or play golf from two till four” – that’s all right – “from five till seven-thirty more work or a game of squash rackets”. Yes, a very excellent programme, if I may say so, but there is one thing about it which I shall be obliged to alter. We must have the whole morning for work.’

  ‘Has Mr. Pringle given Roderick so much to do?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. A very great deal. I am afraid from what Mr. Pringle tells me that Roderick is an idle, a backward boy.’

  ‘I know he is.’

  ‘Mr. Pringle doubts whether Roderick will pass into Sandhurst at all unless we read the whole of Horace, selections, which he has made for us, from Pliny and Virgil, the letters of Julius Caesar, the Iliad, most of the Greek Anthology, Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and Froude’s Essays,’ said Paul wildly, and at random. ‘And besides all that he urged on me the importance of coaching Roderick thoroughly in mathematics and European history. Personally I think it seems rather a pity to pin the boy down to his lessons when he could be reaping so much benefit from fresh air and exercise, but you know what these schoolmasters are like. Besides, you must yourself be anxious for him to pass into Sandhurst, and if he is to do so with any degree of certainty we shall, I fear, be obliged to give up more time to our work than you have allowed for on this programme.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Lady Bobbin, ‘I’m sure I don’t wish the boy’s work to suffer, and as you say, I am very anxious that he should pass for Sandhurst. And that reminds me of something I wanted to mention to you – please do all that you can to persuade Roderick that he wants to go into the army. He has an absurd idea of becoming a diplomat, which I should very much dislike. I myself am a soldier’s daughter and a soldier’s wife – ’

  ‘So am I,’ said Paul. ‘At least I am a soldier’s son and my mother was a soldier’s wife.’

  ‘And I particularly wish Roderick to become a soldier, to carry on the tradition in his father’s regiment, so that I shall be very much obliged to you for any influence you may bring to bear in this direction. Now tell me how you intend to arrange your day, and then I must go out.’

  ‘I fear that it will be necessary for us to work from nine to one a.m. Personally, I am a great believer in morning work for young people. I think it most valuable. The whole afternoon will then be free for outdoor exercise – I am glad to hear that there are some squash courts near-by, as we shall be able to play them after it is too dark for riding or golf. We will see how the work is going, but I expect that I shall be obliged to call upon a couple of hours of his time after dinner as well.’

  ‘I see that you intend to be very severe with Roderick, so much the better. The boy has needed a man’s hand for some years. I’m afraid I have been rather inclined to spoil him myself. All right, then, we’ll leave it at that. I should be obliged if you would let me know from time to time how the work is getting on.’

  So saying, Lady Bobbin hurried away to the stables.

  ‘That’s grand,’ said Bobby, when Paul had told him with a good deal of unseemly merriment, the results of his interview. ‘I’m thankful you were quite firm about the morning work. Actually, of course, what I shall do is to tuck up on this sofa; it doesn’t suit my constitution to be awake before lunch time, while you get on with great-grandmamma’s journal. You might read out any juicy bits that you happen to come across. Then the moment lunch is finished we’ll hack over to Mulberrie Farm. Amabelle says there is a groom who can exercise the horses for us, while we play bridge and gossip with her – I’ll tell him to jolly well tire them out, too. If we get back late we’ll pretend that we stopped at Woodford Manor (that’s Major Stanworth’s) for a game of squash and some tea. Mother will be awfully pleased. Well, thanks to you, Paul, old boy, I’m looking forward to the decentest hols, for years.’ And Bobby flung himself on to the sofa, where he immediately fell asleep.

  Meanwhile Paul returned to the journal, and was soon in the middle of that part of it which describes at immense length and in great detail the last weeks and hours of Sir Josiah Bobbin, who died, at the age of sixty-one, evidently from chronic over-eating.

  Aug. 6th, 1878.

  Spent many happy hours today in the Beloved
Sick Room. I occupied some of them by reading aloud from the ‘Idylls of the King’, a work combining such noble sentiments with such an interesting narrative (both of which are, in my opinion, and that of Josiah, a sine qua non of really great poetry) that it is truly pleasant and edifying to read. How different from so much that is written in these days! My Dear One slept most of the time. He still has, I am most thankful to say, a good appetite, although so unwell, and it is by the means of constant feeding with nourishing foods that we are able to maintain his Precious Strength. It is now very late, almost midnight, the hour always consecrated to my journal. Ah! Faithful Page, to thee how many sorrows have I confided, safe in the knowledge that thou at least will never misconstrue my meaning, never repeat my secrets to a hard, uncomprehending world. Tonight I will unburden more of myself to thee, as I sit beside the Beloved Bed. For the day which is just dawning is the anniversary of the death of Dearest Mamma, who passed away when I was but an unthinking babe of four months old. Oh, cruel Fate which robbed nine little ones of their Guiding Star at such an early age, leaving them to reach maturity without a Mother’s care.