The Man Who Grew Tomatoes

by Gladys Mitchell

  “You understand?”

  “I understand, and thank you again, sir.”

  “Gertrude!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I don’t like Mrs. Hal any more than you do.”

  “A Merry Christmas, sir.”

  “It looks as though your wish for me will come true. Remember, Gertrude, the leave has been granted and all arrangements have been made.”

  “I quite understand, sir.”

  He returned home on the morning following Boxing Day to be given an unpleasant surprise. Mrs. Hal and Peter were still in occupation of Camber. Mrs. Hal was gushing; Peter, a small, rather wizened, pale child, was painfully silent. He seemed to be summing Hugh up.

  “So here I am, you see,” said Mrs. Hal brightly.

  “Yes, yes, I do see. You have been managing for yourself, I take it.”

  “With Daisy’s help. It was really very inconsiderate of you, Hugh, to put the servants on board wages just at Christmas time; but I managed. We old campaigners, you know!”

  “You mean that Daisy didn’t go home for Christmas?”

  “Well, darling boy, how could she? I had to have somebody’s help!”

  Hugh was furiously angry but did his best to disguise the fact. He was successful.

  “Then I must trouble you to recompense her,” he said equably. “You see, she was on board wages, which meant that she should not have been in the house at all, let alone be asked to do any work in it.”

  “That is not the meaning of board wages, Hugh.”

  “It is my meaning. I compute that you owe Daisy at least…”

  “Don’t be silly, Hugh! I shall pay her nothing!”

  “I did not think you would, but the fact that you will not pay her does not resolve the debt. How much longer had you thought of staying?”

  “Well, it’s very kind of you, Hugh. I shall, of course, give Daisy a present.”

  “That will be very nice for her to show her mother. As Daisy has not been home for Christmas I must make shift without her for a bit. As, without Daisy’s help, the kitchen staff will refuse to function, there seems nothing for it but for me to go back to my club. In any case, I am thinking of selling Camber.”

  “Selling it! Oh, Hugh, you couldn’t do that!”

  “Why not? It is far too big for me.”

  “But it’s my son’s inheritance!”

  “Nonsense, Héloïse. It isn’t entailed. It is the property of the owner and—I dislike stressing the point—I am the owner.”

  He sat back and watched her.

  “You mean,” she said, at last, “you don’t want Peter and me here?”

  “Regrettably but decisively, no, Héloïse, I do not. I am a misogynist and a recluse by nature, and the society of women and children is abhorrent to me. I hope you will pardon this frankness, but we must understand one another, I feel.”

  “I fully understand you! You are the most selfish, callous, cold-blooded, loveless man I ever met! You have no sense of family, no sense of your obligations! I shall go at once, and take your heir with me!”

  She swept out and Hugh could hear her calling for Peter. She came in again to say good-bye, to find Hugh staring out of the window at a thin, fine rain.

  “I’ll drive you to the station,” he said briefly. Mrs. Hal maintained an offended silence. Hugh bought the tickets and a bundle of magazines for her. Then he drove back to Camber and presented the astonished Daisy with five pounds.

  “I am truly sorry you missed your Christmas, Daisy,” he said. “Perhaps you’d like to take next week-end instead?”

  “Me, sir? Oh, no, sir, thank you. It only mean me doing the washing and the cooking and the scrubbing and the shopping instead of my mother, sir. I was glad to miss Christmas at home.”

  “Well, well!” said Hugh. “How true it is that the one half doesn’t know how the other half lives!”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for the five pounds, but I don’t see why you give me all that much. I only do a bit of cooking and cleaning for Mrs. Hal, and look after the little boy for her.”

  “Not only did you do all that for Mrs. Hal, Daisy. You have performed for me an inestimable service.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “You, Daisy. You have rid me of an incubus, and, I hope, once and for all.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Well, Daisy, it is so much more satisfactory to express a righteous indignation in support of the oppressed than to indicate in an unsociable manner that one prefers one’s own company to that of one’s nearest relations.”

  Daisy studied him with bovine thoughtfulness, then, with a sigh of utter incomprehension, she shook her head and went away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Anonymous Spite

  “Good speed, for I this day

  Betimes my matins say,

  Because I do

  Begin to woo.”

  Robert Herrick

  In spite of his previous declarations, Hugh found himself reading the Lessons at church on every third Sunday. He also found himself made president of the village football club, but, as this office involved him in nothing more personal than finding an annual subscription, he preferred it to the other except for one thing. His acquaintanceship with the vicar’s sister had flourished. They had met on several occasions and their friendship deepened every time he met her. He soon found himself contriving to meet her—at first as though the encounters were accidental. By the end of March he had taken her twice to lunch in Norwich, for several jaunts in his car and once to an evening performance at the Maddermarket.

  It was such a novel and delightful experience for him to have a woman friend that he found himself confiding more and more in her as the friendship deepened. He gave her an account of all the rumours, remarks, and innuendoes he had heard concerning the deaths of Paul and Stephen and the conduct of Verith; he also told her, with some humour, the story of the abortive visits of Héloïse Camber to the family seat.

  “Of course, as things stand at present, I suppose her son is your heir,” said Catherine thoughtfully.

  “Not necessarily; and, supposing that I should marry, a most unlikely supposition,” said Hugh. His own words startled him. What hidden wish had suddenly swum to the surface of his mind he had no idea. He glanced at the girl. They had been headed for the bleak sea-marshes of the northern coast of the county, but, at Fakenham, Catherine had decided that she wanted to see Castle Rising and its Norman church. It was this which had precipitated matters and that for an unexpected reason.

  The stern tower-keep was deserted. They mounted the impressive stone staircase of the forebuilding and found themselves in what they supposed to be the chapel. A narrow opening gave on to the gallery of the great hall, whose wooden floor had disappeared, so that they could look down into the vast undercroft, once devoted to stores and guardrooms.

  “I’m glad Camber isn’t a castle,” said Hugh, following his companion along the gallery to inspect two small retiring-rooms at the further end. “An Elizabethan manor built on the ruins of a medieval abbey is eerie enough at times, but this vast barracks…!”

  They had turned to come out of the second of the tiny, stone-built chambers when Catherine, who was leading, stopped so abruptly that Hugh almost fell over her.

  “Look!” she said. “Whatever is it?”

  Hugh came level with her. She caught his sleeve, an instinctive gesture of asking for his protection. He recognised it, and his heart leapt in his breast. The next second he realised that she would have done the same, in her moment of panic, to any companion, man or woman, who had happened to be there.

  The reason for her sudden fright was obvious. In the narrow opening from the chapel on to the gallery stood a white figure.

  “The castle ghost, obviously,” said Hugh, himself a little startled by the phenomenon, although he felt sure it had a rational explanation. “Stay here, while I sort it out.”

  He strode forward and as he drew nearer to the app
arition its contours broadened and changed. By some extraordinary chance, possibly because workmen called in to effect some minor repairs to the chapel had white-washed walls behind the narrow opening, there had come this ghostly effect. Hugh turned to call encouragingly to the girl, and found her almost at his elbow.

  “I couldn’t let you face it alone,” she said; and by that simple remark set the seal on their new relationship, so that on the way home the conversation took a turn which Hugh had not consciously planned.

  “…I suppose her son is your heir?”

  “Not necessarily; and, supposing that I should marry…”

  “Let’s go back by way of Ely,” Catherine interrupted him crudely, aware of the glance which had followed the words. She felt suddenly panic-stricken. Hugh, however, plucked up enough courage to continue the surprising speech he had begun.

  “I’ve never thought of marriage before,” he said. “But, then, I’ve never had a responsibility like Camber before. It needs a mistress.”

  “Oh, dear! Is that your only reason for thinking of marriage?” asked Catherine, laughing because she was embarrassed. Unlike Hugh, she had often thought of marriage, preferably with him.

  “Well, no. The reason is mainly personal. As a matter of fact, since meeting you I’ve begun to feel rather lonely.”

  “That’s not exactly a compliment.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Hugh. “You go on thinking about it, if you will, and you’ll end by seeing what I mean.”

  He did not refer to the subject again until he set her down at her garden gate.

  “Good night,” she said. “Thank you for a very lovely day. I didn’t realise that life was just a bit dull before you came.”

  “Do you mean that, Catherine?”

  “Of course. Good night, Hugh.”

  “Good night.” He drove home feeling exhilarated and yet content, a pleasantly mixed mood which was not violently upset even when he read the solitary missive which had been placed on the hall table. It was in an unlettered hand and informed him that Mrs. Hal had been knocked down by a car and, although not on the danger list, would be in hospital for some little time and had supplied the writer (“which I am, and oblige, Mrs. Hicks as cleans the flat daily,”) with Hugh’s address. Mrs. Hicks had instructions, it appeared, to write to him, tell him of the accident, and beg him to take charge of Peter at Camber until Mrs. Hal was up and about again.

  “Damn Héloïse! She’s done this on purpose!” thought Hugh, uncharitably; but it did not occur to him to refuse the request. He set off early on the following morning and brought the boy back with him, leaving a note for Héloïse which the daily help might take to the hospital. He also paid her wages which, she hinted, were more than overdue, a statement which Hugh had no difficulty in crediting.

  “There you are, you see!” said Catherine, when she was apprised of the arrangements. “Now you’ll get really fond of the poor little chap with his mother out of the way.”

  “He’s a pallid, puling sort of brat,” said Hugh. “I thought he boarded at a prep school, but it turns out that he’s only a day-boy. I shall send him to the village school here, I think, unless”—he grinned suddenly—“you’d like to take him on and teach him. He’s used to a woman’s tender care. Wouldn’t you like to be his governess? I could easily fix you up a school-room at Camber and transport you every day in the car. What do you say?”

  “Don’t be silly! But I’d love to come over to Camber and see him.”

  “Very well. You and your brother come to dinner tomorrow evening.”

  “Surely little Peter doesn’t stay up to dinner!”

  “Why on earth shouldn’t he?”

  “Didn’t you say he was only ten or eleven years old?”

  “What’s that got to do with it? My great-grandfather was putting in a twelve-hour working day when he was ten! That’s why he was able to leave my grandfather with a fortune.”

  “You are quite ridiculous. In any case, I should have thought you’d be glad to get rid of the little boy in the evenings.”

  “Oh, he likes staying up to dinner. It’s about the only thing he does like, as far as I can see. Make it lunch instead of dinner, if you like.”

  “Arthur won’t come to lunch. He says that lunching out interrupts his work. All right. We’ll come to dinner. What is the new cook like?”

  “Big, bold, and brassy.”

  “Her cooking, stupid!”

  “A very wifely epithet!”

  “Don’t be silly!”

  “I mean it. Why shouldn’t we?” said Hugh.

  “Why shouldn’t we what?”

  “Marry. You haven’t anybody else in mind, have you?”

  “How do you know? Besides, what would poor Arthur do?”

  “I shall provide him with a secretary, likewise a cook.”

  “You’re quite ridiculous.”

  “Oh, well, I suppose my age is against me, and that’s why you are turning me down.”

  “It isn’t that at all.”

  “All right. See you later, then. I’ll come over at six and pick you both up. Mind you’re ready. I loathe waiting for people.”

  The dinner was not much of a success. The Reverend Arthur was so silent that Hugh felt certain Catherine had told him of the proposal of marriage; the child Peter was forcibly retired from the table when he declared that he felt sick; Catherine had a headache—a fairly sure sign that she had had a wearing day—and Hugh himself soon wished for nothing so much as for the meal to be over, his guests back in their own home, and himself in the library with his slippers on, a pipe going, and a new detective story to read.

  He did not see Catherine on the following day. As the child seemed listless and out-of-sorts he felt he ought to be with him in case the doctor was needed. He was feeling bored and a little out-of-sorts himself, but it occurred to him that he ought to ring up the hospital. He was glad when he had done so, for he was told that Mrs. Hal’s injuries were not serious and that she would be discharged at the end of the following week. During the whole of the telephone conversation, Peter sat on the floor and drummed his heels on the carpet. Hugh found him an unlovable child, but was persuaded that he missed his mother.

  “Uncle Hugh,” said the boy, as Hugh put down the receiver, “why was Stephen drowned?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Darling says somebody gave him some wine or even whisky.”

  “Who’s Darling?” Hugh was not prepared to discuss the circumstances of Stephen’s death with the child.

  “She likes me to call her Darling.”

  “But you don’t wear velvet suits with lace collars or have a grandfather who’s an earl, do you?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Everything. The hospital says you can go home to your mother tomorrow week.”

  “I don’t want to. I like it here. After all, I write to her every day.”

  “I shall take you home in the car and we’ll have lunch out.”

  “I’m sick when I have lunch out, and I’m sick when I go in cars.”

  “Pity.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll miss such a lot of fun when you’re a man. Why don’t you write a letter to your mother saying you’re glad she’s so much better and that you’re looking forward to seeing her again?”

  “I don’t want to see her again.”

  “Too bad. Well, I’m going out in the car right now. Do you want to go into the kitchen and see whether Cook has something good for you?”

  “Where are you going in the car?”

  “Oh, just out and about.”

  “With that woman who came to dinner?”

  “Very possibly.”

  “Are you going to marry her?”

  “See my last answer, old man. Your guess, at present, is as good as mine. Do caramels make you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Splendid. You’ll find some on the hall table. Go and grab them and then go along and ask Cook
if she’ll have you in the kitchen for a bit this afternoon.”

  “If you say so.”

  The child went off and Hugh got out the car and drove to the vicar’s cottage. The incumbent was again busy in the long front garden.

  “Spring around the corner? Looking for the blue-bird?” asked Hugh. The vicar thrust his garden fork into a flowerbed.

  “Camber,” he said, “are your intentions honourable?”

  Hugh was about to take this preposterous question seriously when the broad smile with which he was confronted disarmed him.

  “My dear chap, I’m afraid they are,” he said. The vicar put out his hand.

  “All the luck in the world. She’s a girl in a thousand,” he said. “I was a surly brute the other night at the thought of losing her. I’m sorry. After all, I myself may marry some day.”

  “One thing,” said Hugh, “it isn’t as though we were going to live at the other end of the earth.”

  At this moment Catherine came out to them.

  “What are you two shaking hands about?” she enquired.

  “I was thanking Camber—Hugh, I suppose I must call him—for taking my sister off my hands.”

  “You’re a bit premature, Arthur dear. I haven’t accepted him yet.”

  “Come for a drive, and I’ll pop the question again,” suggested Hugh.

  During the next few days, wind of the engagement blew through the village. Hugh drove his fiancée into Norwich to choose the ring. Young Peter received a pound note and a new shilling with which to celebrate, and the day of his return to London came, from his point of view, all too soon. Hugh drove a morose and whining youngster to Mrs. Hal’s flat.

  She thanked him gushingly for seeing after her child, remarked upon how well Peter was looking and how much he had grown during the short time in Norfolk, and gave Hugh tea. Just as he was ready to drive home she produced a piece of paper which bore signs of having been crumpled up and then smoothed out again.

  “I don’t know whether there’s any point in bothering you with this rubbish, Hugh, dear,” she said, “but perhaps you’ll tell me whether I ought to do anything about it—whether you’d like me to. It doesn’t mention any names, but, as it was sent to me in hospital, it seems as though it’s referring somehow to you.”