Family Gathering

by Elizabeth Cadell

  Less than fifty miles from London the car broke down with a thoroughness which made its new owner fear that it was now only fit to be broken up. He made arrangements for its removal to a garage and looked round for a place in which to stay the night.

  He found a room at an inn called “The Huntsman” and discovered that its host was well known to him, being one of the companions of his earlier and wilder youth. There followed a night of cheerful revelry with the landlord, his charming young wife and several choice spirits hastily summoned from twenty or thirty miles round.

  The pleasure of the evening was a little marred by the host’s disclosure that he was losing money fast, and found the competition with the large neighbouring hotels ruinous and crippling.

  This, Jeremy pointed out, waving a tankard of beer, was because nobody—nobody, that is, but the poverty-stricken like himself—could be expected to know by instinct that behind the opulent hotels on the roadside, a humbler but infinitely finer sort of hospitality was to be found. Why, he inquired, didn’t the host take down that silly little outdated board swinging outside and put up something that would tower against the skyline and bring to every passing traveller knowledge of the Huntsman’s existence?

  It was an idea, said all those present, but who would put up what, and where?

  “I,” said Jeremy, draining his tankard, “shall paint the largest huntsman in England—and his horse—and man and beast shall tower to the skies and draw the gaze of all travellers…”

  Contrary to most resolutions made in similar circumstances, Jeremy found that though the memory of the evening dimmed, the possibilities of the idea persisted. He believed in advertisement, but considered that most signs designed to catch the eye and arrest attention were blatant, and an offence to the beauty of town and countryside. He wondered whether he could do something to draw the notice of the public irresistibly, without detracting from the charm of the scene…He had an idea…

  When the hunting season began, the Stettesbury Hounds met at the Huntsman Inn and Jeremy, with a showman’s instinct, decided to put up his Huntsman to coincide with the event.

  The scenes which followed the appearance of the gigantic sign were recorded and pictured in every newspaper in the land. Extra police were drafted to the district to deal with the traffic and to control crowds which became thick and ever thicker as motorists, cyclists, mothers with perambulators and fathers with eager little boys came to see the towering figure on the magnificent hunter, to let their fascinated gaze wander from the black cap to the hunting pink and to note with wonder that the horn was no mere painted one, but a real horn, one end of which rested on the huntsman’s lips while the other stood out nobody knew how many feet from the sign. The horse’s reins, shouted delighted children, were real—they were leather, weren’t they, daddy, real leather and not just a painting. The horse’s mane was real, too, as the old farmer pointed out to his wife. It was real, and danged if it wasn’t blowing away there in the wind.

  The sign, the Huntsman Inn and Jeremy sprang into prominence together. Jeremy found offers coming in from every corner of the kingdom, and owners of inns and hotels throughout the land were anxious to commission him to put up better and brighter signs.

  He bought a studio in London, selected an Inn which promised the most scope for his genius, and settled down to find out whether he would like to become a sign-painter for life.

  He thought that he would. His second sign was as successful as the first, and the only cloud in his sky was the deep distaste he felt for life in London. This developed into loathing and Jeremy sold the studio, turned his back on the capital and returned to make his home in Devonshire.

  He was soon to leave Romescourt; his furniture and a large part of his effects were installed in his new home. His studio, however, was not yet ready. Two of the rooms of the farmhouse had been made into one, and new windows added. The work was done and now only the decorating remained.

  It was as well for Natalie that Jeremy was at Romescourt during her first week. Grateful as she was for his presence, she scarcely realized how much she owed, in the earliest stages of her transition, to her stepson’s protection and foresight. Jeremy took her under his wing with a thoroughness for which his father would have been grateful, and there sprang up between him and his stepmother a deep affection and respect.

  Natalie soon learnt the ways of the household. The work was done by an aged butler, his wife, Emmaline—who did the cooking—and two daughters so gaunt and bony that Jeremy christened them Emmaleaner and Emmaleanest and referred to them as the skeleton staff. The butler was also assisted by a small boy, son of the couple who lived at the small Home Farm and provided the household with milk, butter and eggs. Meat was scarce, but there were some chickens and plenty of vegetables from the acres Sir Jason had under cultivation, the surplus of which he sold to market stalls at Hunnytor.

  Meals, though never heavy, were adequate. Jeremy’s favourite meal was tea, and every afternoon the usual thin-bread-and-butter fare was augmented by the buns and scones he liked best, with or without his beloved Devonshire cream. With so heavy a tea to support her, Natalie found a light dinner quite enough.

  It was a surprise—and a relief—to find that nobody ever discussed food, clothes or the affairs of the day. If there were shortages, Lady Rome never referred to them; if Sir Jason felt that the country’s affairs were being mishandled, his reactions could be gauged only by the state of his newspaper after breakfast—smooth and tidy, crumpled and scattered or lying in a mangled heap on the floor and looking as though someone had jumped upon it.

  Accustomed to the sound of Helen’s wireless at every moment her daughter was in the flat, Natalie found no sign, at Romescourt, that broadcasting was taking place anywhere. She learnt that one of Sir Jason’s strongest convictions was that nobody should be asked to listen to any sound they did not wish to hear. If people wanted a din, they could, he said, have a din, but nobody else need suffer martyrdom on that account. He had once visited some friends who assembled a large number of people in their drawing-room and then, without warning, turned on the News and indicated to their guests, by hissings and fierce looks, that everybody was expected to maintain an unbroken silence until the announcer had read his piece. This behaviour, which Sir Jason described as a piece of unwarrantable impertinence, had led him to place his own wireless set in a large unheated room situated in a remote part of the house. Anybody who cared to go and listen at any time could do so. Details of programmes were provided, and there was even a second wireless set in the opposite corner of the room in case there should arise a conflict between listeners as to the type of programme they preferred. It was not often that anybody availed themselves of these amenities. Natalie once found her way to the room to listen to a concert, but the cold was so piercing that she was soon obliged to go back to the comparative warmth of the drawing-room.

  Lady Rome scarcely ever left Romescourt. The old chauffeur, Shearer by name, had long since retired, and lived in a cottage in the grounds. He cleaned and cared for the car and was available to drive it whenever his services were required, but his greatest use was in providing a convincing excuse for Lady Rome to stay at home. “Shearer isn’t well enough to drive me” meant that Lady Rome, and not Shearer, was indisposed.

  Lucille’s chief—and indeed, only interest lay in the care and exercise of three horses named Moonlight, Starlight and Flashlight. She appeared at breakfast in jodhpurs which, though they might vary in hue and material, were equally patched and old. Of the family, only Jeremy seemed to have any interest in the fashions of the day; Lucille looked like a pretty but neglected schoolgirl; Lady Rome wore an assortment of workmanlike tweeds, heavy boots, garden-party hats and dangling necklaces, while Sir Jason’s working suits were uniformly green with age.

  Natalie soon settled into a quiet, placid routine. If she wanted her father-in-law, she knew he could be found among his vegetables. Lady Rome would be weeding flower-beds and Lucille would be in the sta
bles. Natalie went from one to the other, helping where she could, or roamed happily over the house, finding objects of interest everywhere, and learning, with the aid of William’s letters, more and more about his boyhood in the rooms in which so many generations of Romes had lived and died. Jeremy spent a good deal of time with her and she was grateful for this chance of cementing their friendship before they had to part—he to take up his residence at his farm and she to get a home ready for William.

  Lady Rome had asked her several times if she would like to go and look at the cottages and Natalie had given an eager affirmative; but, like all Lady Rome’s proposals, there was kindness and warmth, repetition and even pressure, but no fulfilment. Jeremy brought the subject up during one of the long, lazy mornings he and Natalie spent together, she sewing or writing to Helen, and Jeremy stretched on a rug at her feet.

  “When are you going down to see those places?” he asked. “There are three of them now—Grandfather’s chucked some tenants out of a house in the village and you can have that if you want it.”

  Natalie looked distressed and Jeremy added some details. “You needn’t look worried about it,” he told her. “There was a couple in it from—of all wicked places—London. Up to no good, they were, and when old Jason heard about their goings-on he went down and gave them notice to quit. So they quit.”

  “Oh”—Natalie gave a little murmur—“weren’t they—weren’t they married?”

  “Certainly they were married,” said Jeremy.

  “Then why - ”

  “But not,” pursued Jeremy, “to each other. You and I can have no idea what a difference that would make to a stiff old boy like Jason. He doesn’t move with the times, doesn’t Grandfather. But as a matter of fact,” he went on, “he didn’t turn that couple out because he was feeling moral. If I know him—and I do—he’s going to offer the house to you. But if he does, tell him you won’t have it.”

  “What’s the matter with it?” asked Natalie.

  “Nothing—inside,” said Jeremy. “But outside, it’s the most shocking bit of work you ever saw. Horses shy as they go past it. It used to be part of quite a decent house—then the decent bit got burnt down. We all expected Grandfather to pull this bit down, too, but he said that building materials were hard to come by and he had the idea that he could re-arrange the inside and make quite a decent place of it. And I must say,” acknowledged Jeremy, “that he didn’t do it badly. But you couldn’t really live in it—it’s an appalling yellow-painted affair right on the village street. I thought I’d warn you, because I’ve an idea Grandfather will do his best to get you into it. He re-designed the inside all by himself and he’s frightfully proud of it.”

  Natalie thanked him and studied the long, lazy figure at her feet affectionately but with a reluctant admission that there were one or two things about Jeremy which Helen might not like. Helen didn’t, for example, like men to be flippant, and Jeremy was scarcely ever anything else. She hated men to lounge and Jeremy lounged all the time. He had told Natalie that he had just fulfilled a contract to deliver a sign to the Dick Turpin Inn somewhere in Yorkshire—Black Bess, he said, was leaping over the hedge in magnificent style— but since Natalie’s arrival, the sign-painter had exhibited no further indications of industry. Her brow puckered and Jeremy watched her with amusement.

  “What’s gone wrong now?” he inquired. “You’re always putting tucks into that brow of yours. Yesterday it was because Helen hadn’t written, and today— well, what’s it today?”

  “I was wondering,” confessed Natalie, “why you never seemed to do any work.”

  “Ah!” Jeremy shifted himself into a more comfortable position and began to sift the interesting contents of his stepmother’s work-basket. “The reason,” he went on, “that I appear to be doing nothing is that I am, actually and in point of fact, really doing nothing. You see not the appearance of sloth, but sloth itself.”

  “But shouldn’t you—”

  “Shouldn’t I what?” inquired Jeremy. “Be working? Yes, I should, because no work, no pay. But my father said I must grow to love my new mamma, and here I am growing like anything—and besides, my studio or place of work is now cluttered up with the other sort of painters—the slap-it-on-the-wall kind, and I can’t work with that sort of thing going on, can I? Everything’s being painted—my car’s being painted. It’s going to be a nice pretty blue, like your eyes, and when it’s done I’ll drive you out to Ragged Edge and you can tell me what you think of my house.”

  Natalie removed several reels of thread and a pair of scissors from his destructive grasp.

  “What are you going to do next?” she asked.

  “What sign?—I don’t know,” said Jeremy. “I have to be careful—ever since they put my last one up at that place near Coventry, they’ve had a nasty crop of road accidents. I gave Lady Godiva real hair, and on windy days, the cars pile up on top of one another simply because the drivers pay more attention to the horse’s lovely lines than to their driving. Can I help it if—”

  “You didn’t,” said Natalie, “do Lady Godiva at all, and you’re simply talking nonsense. You did Dick Turpin.”

  “Well, it was something on a horse,” said Jeremy. “I like doing horses. What’s that you’re doing?” he went on, examining with interest the soft folds of the blouse she was sewing. “Yours?” he asked.

  “No—it’s for Helen,” said Natalie. “She wears a lot of black and when the weather’s warmer she likes to have these white things—they look dainty and they suit her.”

  “What’s she like?” inquired Jeremy. “I wanted to come to the wedding and be your page and walk down the aisle with Helen, but you dished all that by shutting us out.” He saw the colour come into Natalie’s cheeks, and smiled. “I believe you’re sorry now,” he went on. “Now that you’ve seen how nice we all are, and not terrifying—except Granny, of course—Granny’s definitely terrifying—aren’t you sorry you didn’t have us with you?”

  “Yes, I am,” admitted Natalie.

  “I thought so. But you needn’t,” said Jeremy, “reproach yourself. Grandfather regards every hour away from his crops as so much time thrown away, and Granny—well, I think it was just about that time that Shearer had one of his worst goes. I’d have come, though—and Lucille.”

  At this mention of her stepdaughter, Natalie wondered—not for the first time—whether she could bring up the subject of Duncan Macdonald. The affair had blossomed under Jeremy’s auspices and she felt that he would be able to give her an insight into Lucille’s feelings. Nobody had spoken of Duncan—Jeremy’s references to him had been fleeting, though Natalie had gleaned from them the knowledge that he liked Canny Macdonald, as he called him, very much indeed.

  It was today that Duncan was to have come to Romescourt. Natalie saw once again the strong young face with its attractive brown eyes and heard the note in his voice when he spoke Lucille’s name. He was to have come today to claim her, and now—

  Natalie wondered what he had done on hearing the news. He would no doubt return to his home—not, this time, in joyful triumph, but sadly…

  There could be no harm in bringing up the subject with Jeremy. He would not think her interfering. She was wondering how she could open the topic, when the door opened and Lucille entered.

  She smiled at her stepmother, stepped over her brother and curled herself on the end of Natalie’s sofa.

  “Granny sent me,” she explained. “She says you haven’t been out since you came, Natalie, and if you want to go, I’m to drive you. Or Jeremy’s to take you —only I know Jeremy won’t drive the car.”

  “You’re right, and Jeremy won’t,” said her brother. “And I bet that one drive with you was enough for Natalie. Did you notice, Natalie?—she always keeps both eyes on the passenger.”

  “Yes, I do,” agreed Lucille equably. “It seems so silly to talk to the steering-wheel. Would you like me to take you out?” she asked her stepmother.

  Natalie thanked he
r and replied truthfully that she thought the day too cloudy for pleasant sight-seeing. Lucille agreed that it was, and got up to let in two dogs who were clamouring for admittance. Scarcely had she regained the sofa when the door opened once more and Natalie saw a tall, fair young man enter.

  His coming caused no stir. The dogs thumped their tails twice upon the ground, Jeremy pulled an imaginary forelock and Lucille gave him her gentle smile. It was impossible for anyone to judge from her manner whether this was her fiancé or the most casual of acquaintances.

  “Hello, Philip,” she said.

  “Come and meet my new stepmother,” invited Jeremy. “She ill-uses me and she beats Lucille.”

  Natalie gave a quiet greeting to the newcomer and heard a gentle murmur from Lucille.

  “This is Philip Bellamy, Natalie.”

  Philip studied her briefly and spoke in a pleasant but formal tone.

  “We’ve all looked forward to your coming, Mrs. Rome,” he said. “I hope you’ll be very happy down here.”

  He listened to Natalie’s hesitant thanks politely and with studied patience and she found herself wishing that his manner was less polished. She knew that she was doubly prejudiced; like many shy people, she had a sound instinct as to her own effect on others and Duncan, she knew, had liked her; this man thought her uninteresting. She probably was, admitted Natalie humbly, but it was easier to like a person who didn’t think so.

  She checked her regrets and was surprised to hear that Philip had come over to keep an appointment to ride with Lucille. Natalie wondered what would have happened if she had agreed to go for a drive, and decided that her stepdaughter would have taken her with the same readiness with which she rose at her fiancé’s suggestion and prepared to accompany him. She turned and held out a hand to Natalie.

  “Come and see Flashlight,” she invited. “I left him just near the drive.”

  Jeremy rose with his stepmother and the four made their way outside, Jeremy making a detour to bring a coat for Natalie.