by John Masters
‘That’ll cost money, milord. But it would help.’
‘You tell Granger down in the village that you want to buy any of his chickens that don’t turn out right … p’raps a dozen a week would do … Send the bills to the hunt secretary, Mr Eaves … Everything ready for the shoot on Saturday?’
‘Yes, milord. It is still to be nine guns, and yourself?’
Walstone nodded – ‘Lord Taggart, Admiral de Lome, the Duke of Taunton, General Sir Roger Mainwaring, Lord Justice Arnold, Sir Henry Mimms, Sir George Clark-Kent, Mr Francis Saintsbury, and Mr Morton Cross … with their wives, except Lord Taggart, who’s a bachelor, likes little boys, I hear… Know any of ’em?’
‘The Duke of Taunton has shot here several times, with Lord Swanwick,’ Probyn said, ‘and so has Mr Cross. Sir Henry Mimms’ father came frequently in my young days. They were all good shots. They get plenty of practice,’ he added, not as a social comment, but as a matter of fact.
‘All right, I’m paying the beaters seven shillings each for the day, and that’s final. How many loaders did you get in the end?’
‘Seven, milord, not counting me.’
‘H’m. So two will have to load for themselves. Well, it can’t be helped. That’s all, Probyn … Chapman!’
Probyn cut in – ‘Excuse me, my lord, there’s something I ought to tell you.’
‘What is it?’ Walstone said impatiently. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
‘Your guns, milord. They’re not worthy of your position.’
Walstone stared, ‘What the ’ell …?’
‘You should get two pairs of Purdeys specially made for you. Then the other gentlemen’s loaders won’t be laughing up their sleeves at what you have.’
‘How much?’
‘Five hundred guineas the pair, milord.’
Walstone stopped in his tracks – ‘Five … hundred … guineas?’ His look became suspicious – ‘Do you get a rake-off?’
Probyn said stiffly, ‘I have nothing to do with the transaction, my lord. Only, I do not wish my employer to look cheap ’cos it makes me look cheap, too. Now, if I may go, milord …’
‘Oh go to hell … I’ll get the bleeding guns … Chapman! Where’s Her Ladyship?’
‘Here, milord, waiting to see you.’
‘Send her in.’ Ruth came in, carrying the Honourable Christine Hoggin in her arms, smiling, as though it were quite normal for a baroness to have to wait in the hall to see her husband. She faced him now, gently rocking the sleeping baby, and said, ‘Bill, Probyn Gorse and his Woman are not married.’
‘Of course not,’ Hoggin said. ‘Everyone knows that.’
‘They’re living in the Head Gamekeeper’s cottage as man and wife,’ she said. ‘What are the Duchess of Taunton and Lady Mainwaring going to think if they ever learn that we are, I don’t know the word, helping them to live in sin?’
‘Overlooking it, is the right word,’ Hoggin muttered, but not very loud. ‘Well, what do you want me to do?’
‘Tell Probyn he’s got to marry her. Tell him we will pay for the wedding, the reception, everything. And you’ll give the bride away.’
Hoggin, left speechless, could only shake his head and gasp like a just-caught fish. Ruth said, ‘Thank you, Bill … It’s time Launcelot started riding lessons. Mr Cate told me that the sooner you start, the easier it is. He’s going to have to ride a lot when he grows up.’
‘There’s no one who can teach him properly,’ Walstone wailed. ‘Just the girls in the stables, and none of them can ride very well. I know ’cos I’ve asked them to teach me, and they can’t.’
‘He must start as soon as possible. He’s near three and a half,’ Ruth said ominously.
‘All right, all right,’ Walstone said. ‘Just as soon’s the war’s over and I can get grooms who know a horse’s arse from its ears … as soon as the war’s over …’
‘Thank you, Bill,’ Lady Walstone said, and left the room, cooing to the baby, now awake in her arms. When she had gone Lord Walstone sank into a Chippendale chair, gasping ‘Pheeew!’, pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. After a time he recovered his strength enough to sit up and shout ‘Chapman, send in the accountant!’
The Countess of Swanwick climbed down slowly from the first-class compartment as a porter hurried to help her. She was only sixty-one, she thought, but she felt older; and lack of proper exercise in London was making her stiff. She looked closely at the porter; she’d never seen him before. He was older than she by a good ten years, or he’d have reached her in time to help her down the step. The station itself hadn’t changed … well, she’d only been away seven or eight months; but most things were changing so fast these days that it was quite a surprise, a pleasant surprise. Ah, there was someone she knew, Mr Miller, the stationmaster. He’d lost a boy in France, and was looking grim, depressed, or determined – it was hard to tell which … not only with Mr Miller, with everyone in the country … and the truth was that most people were all three. He recognised her and raised his gold-braided peaked cap – ‘Why, milady … we weren’t expecting you.’
She said, ‘I’ve just come down to get a breath of fresh country air again.’ Miller fell in beside her as she walked towards the platform exit. ‘We’re not far from Hyde Park but … it’s not the same as Walstone Park,’ she added, smiling. ‘Lady Walstone asked me to give her some advice about new curtains – they’ve been badly needed for years – so I came down and am going to take the opportunity to meet some old friends.’
‘Can I get you a taxi, m’lady?’ the stationmaster asked. ‘Mr Woodruff’s garage is just across the road.’
Lady Swanwick shook her head, ‘No, thank you, Mr Miller. I shall walk about, and to the Manor. Mr Cate can drive me to the Park and I expect Lord Walstone will be able to provide transport to bring me back here in time to catch the 4.43.’
‘4.41 it is now, m’lady,’ Miller said anxiously. ‘You don’t want to miss it.’
‘I won’t,’ she said, nodding goodbye. She settled her head deeper into the fur-lined collar of her dark grey overcoat and walked slowly up the lane towards the Saxon tower of the church and the houses clustered round it, mud splashing her pale grey spats, her furled umbrella swinging from one wrist.
Walstone: seat of the Earls of Swanwick for, how long? A long time. Now seat of the 1st Baron Walstone – butcher, grocer, entrepreneur. She realised how much she had missed it. But the world was turning. They all had to make new lives. She reached the main street and paused. Directly opposite was a big barn with a sign reading WOODRUFF’S GARAGE, and two petrol pumps outside; and inside, three motor cars, and a small van; and at one of the pumps another car. Woodruff had enlarged his place since they left. She walked over, recognising Mr Woodruff himself working the lever of the petrol pump back and forth.
‘Good morning, Mr Woodruff,’ she said.
He looked up, but continued his work. ‘Why, good morning, Lady Swanwick.’ A bit free and easy, she thought. No touching of the forelock, but friendly enough.
‘I hope you and your family are all well,’ she said.
‘Can’t complain,’ he said. He turned his head and spoke to the driver of the car – ‘That’s all she’ll take … Seven and threepence … As I was saying, we can’t complain. Our Tom came home to be married in March, but had to go right back out again afterwards. Our Horace got engaged to Carol Adams in September. They’ll all be home soon, it looks like.’
‘I hope so,’ Lady Swanwick said. She remembered now that the elder Woodruff boy, Tom, had got a commission in the Wealds. How would that affect him when he came back to work in the garage here, and had to work the pump, as his father was now starting to do with a beer lorry? She said, ‘I didn’t recognise that man in the car you just filled up.’
Woodruff said, ‘No, m’lady. He and his wife come to live here in June … sort of accountant, he is, works in Hedlington but lives here. There’ll be more like him as soon as we can get more houses built … sma
ll, modern ones, with decent plumbing, central heating even.’
She said, ‘Well, I must be getting on.’ She wandered on, looking, observing … new paint on the post office front window … bakery chimney in worse repair than ever; Mr Jevons was really rather lazy … two new faces, both youngish women, shopping, so they presumably lived here … Ah, Mr Fulcher, his back to her, his hands clasped behind him, doing the same as she – observing. ‘Good morning, Mr Fulcher,’ she said.
He turned with the slow majesty of the law, his face changed, and his hand went to the peak of his helmet in a military salute – ‘Why, your ladyship … your ladyship …’
‘I’m just visiting. How’s your family … and you?’
‘I’m as well as can be expected, seeing as I’m not getting any younger, milady. The missus was took ill last month, though. She was right bad and Doctor Kimball did everything he could, but she was getting worse, when Her Ladyship came down … Her new Ladyship’ – he apologised – ‘and took her hand and sat with her all night. She was better next morning, but Her Ladyship sent for her chauffeur and took the missus to Hedlington General where they found out she had a sort of pneumonia, from the flu … before everybody else was getting it, this was … but in a week she was right as rain.’
Interesting, Lady Swanwick thought; the Big House and perhaps the title are having their effect. She had not known Ruth Stratton, but she was probably a kindly enough soul; now she was becoming the Lady of Walstone, and carrying out her responsibilities.
She moved on. There was Mr Kirby, talking to Miss Hightower outside her little cottage. The rector’s neck was hunched deep into his clerical collar and he was looking thinner in the face. Miss Hightower saw her first and exclaimed, ‘Lady Swanwick – how nice to see you here!’
The rector turned – ‘Well, well … you’re looking well. Lady Swanwick … wish I could say the same of myself … getting older.’ A drop of rheum formed on the end of his nose and fell off on to his striped wool scarf, emblem of athletic prowess at his Oxford college in 1861. ‘Can’t get around the parish as much as I used to … keep getting colds … not the flu, thank heaven,’
‘You should retire,’ the countess said. ‘Weren’t you thinking about that three years ago?’
The rector shook his old head and his white whiskers fluttered in the wind. ‘Who’s the bishop going to find to replace me? I was hoping … well, he’s dead and gone, poor boy. When the war ends, perhaps …’
The countess walked on, heading now up the hill towards the Manor. The field across the road was where the village cricket team played, after they had picked up the cow pats. There was a new building near the gate into it, a smart green wooden hut with a little verandah, where there used to be nothing but, in the corner, an outhouse for the men. Lady spectators were not supposed to have to go during a match, and there were no facilities for them. She walked through the open gate – the field contained no cows – and looked at the building. A brass plate on the front wall, beside the door, read ‘This pavilion was presented to the Walstone Cricket Club by Lord & Lady Walstone, July 18, 1918. IN MEMORY OF WALSTONE’S GLORIOUS DEAD.’
She walked back out into the road. The pavilion was a nice gesture, though there would have to be a proper war memorial, too, when the fighting and the dying ended …
A smartly dressed young woman, passing the other way, paused and stopped, saying hesitantly, ‘It’s Lady Swanwick, isn’t it?’
The countess stopped, resting the point of her umbrella in the thin mud. She said, ‘Yes, but I don’t think …’
‘Adelaide Junkin, m’lady,’ the young woman said. ‘My father was cowman for Mr Taylor, and …’
‘You won a scholarship from school and went to London, oh, ten years ago. I remember. You were very clever.’
The woman said, ‘Thank you. Yes, I studied what they call Home Economics, and was teaching it in London – sort of day school for housewives – when my mother died.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘It was April. There was no one to look after Dad, so I had to come back.’
Poor girl, the countess thought; dragged back from an interesting job and an independent life in London to look after her father, a crippled farm labourer, in a tiny cottage, in deepest Kent. She said, ‘You must miss your work.’
The woman said, ‘Oh, yes, m’lady, but when Lady Walstone heard about me being qualified to teach Home Economics, she arranged for me to run two classes a week here … when all the women aren’t down with flu! We have them in the school mostly, but sometimes we need a kitchen and then we can meet at the Big House, though we have to be sure there’s nothing important on that night.’
‘I hope you get paid properly.’
‘Oh yes, m’lady … Lady Walstone gives me a pound a week, and the women pay sixpence a time, if they can. I get fifteen or twenty women in the class, mostly housewives, of course, but some girls just growing up, thirteen and fourteen …’
She spoke well, the countess thought, a London accent having replaced her Kentish burr. The girl was rattling on – ‘Lady Walstone’s looking for a qualified nurse now to teach the women first aid and elementary home health care and medicine. Nowadays a lot of women want to learn how to tend to their families, especially what to do if someone catches this flu …’
‘Quite,’ the countess said. They said their goodbyes and parted. Quite, she thought. The Swanwicks were not altogether forgotten here, but soon would be. The King is dead. Long live the King.
Now, in a few minutes she’d be at the Manor, and she must think what to say and what not to say. She could express her regret about Laurence, the poor boy. She could ask if he’d had any news of Margaret. She could commiserate over taxes … Christopher had no land left except the home farm … but what on earth could she say about Stella and the baby?
Ethel Fagioletti had recognised Lady Swanwick on the platform at Victoria, and had quickly entered a third-class compartment and looked out of the window on the far side. She saw the countess quite often, as Lady Swanwick came to Soho once a week, at least, to look after Charles while Lady Helen went shopping or visited her sister over in South Kensington. Ethel did not want to intrude or force herself on such a great lady; and she did not want to have to tell her why she was going down to Walstone. In fact her purpose was to visit Probyn’s Woman; but Probyn was now head gamekeeper at the Park. To visit their cottage, Ethel would have to enter the grounds. And the gatekeeper would report that Lady Walstone’s sister had visited, apparently without telling Lady Walstone. She had thought of entering the grounds by stealth, but she was no athlete, and the thought of being discovered was too embarrassing. So, she had had to arrange a visit to Ruth. Ruth had been delighted, in her letter, to invite her down … but then, how and when was she to be alone with Probyn’s Woman? It was Lady Helen who had solved her dilemma. ‘Take a present down for Probyn and his Woman, from me,’ she’d said, ‘and tell your sister I asked you to deliver some private messages, personally. She won’t question you.’ So it had been arranged … first, the formal visit; then, soon after lunch, she’d request to see Probyn’s Woman; then back to the Big House for tea; then home …
At Walstone station she waited, half-hidden behind the station name board, until Lady Swanwick had gone; then she came out, crossed the road, and when Lady S was out of sight, took one of Mr Woodruff’s taxis up to the Big House. The war was nearly over. If Niccolo was spared, he would soon be home. So this visit to Probyn’s Woman had been arranged. By teatime she would know how to get pregnant. Probyn’s Woman knew all about such things, and Ethel was to pay her two guineas to be told the secret, so that when Niccolo came back – Sergeant Niccolo – they would make love and, soon, soon, she would bear his child.
Lady Swanwick talked easily with Christopher Cate in the second-hand Daimler he had recently been persuaded to buy. He was still learning how to drive it, and was as yet by no means proficient at starting, and changing gears; but she felt safe enough, for ther
e was little traffic on the roads, the weather fine and clear. She knew Cate well enough to ask after Isabel Kramer, the American widow who had been so frequent a visitor. It appeared that Mrs Kramer was living with her brother, Stephen Merritt, John’s father; and that her son was now in France with the American infantry. Cate had asked after her children – Barbara, working at a riding school; and Helen – whose boutique was doing well: and whose baby was now six months old. They did not talk about Stella, or her baby, though she felt that Cate desperately needed to, but could not bring himself to do so, even to her. Stella herself had not appeared, nor her baby.
They reached the great steps of Walstone Park and Cate hurried round to help her down – ‘It’s been nice to see you, Flora,’ he said.
‘You, too, Christopher.’
‘Give my best to Roger. And come again … soon. There’s always a bed for you – unless you’d prefer to accept Lord and Lady Walstone’s hospitality.’
She shook her head, ‘No, thanks. I knew Roger had to sell the place, but I loved it. I don’t want to come back as a ghost … this visit will be bad enough.’ She turned. Lady Walstone was coming down the steps. Cate waved, got into the Daimler, and jerkily drove off down the long curved drive. The countess accompanied the baroness up the wide, formal steps.
They had had lunch – much too much food, served as though royalty were present. To Lady Swanwick’s surprise, Ethel Fagioletti had joined them at the meal. She was tongue-tied during it and soon afterwards had disappeared on some mission to Probyn Gorse’s cottage, leaving Lady Swanwick alone with the Walstones. They chatted aimlessly for a time; but small talk was not Hoggin’s forte – he’d not been trained for it, and was obviously becoming impatient. Lady Swanwick judged her moment; and when she thought he was on the point of excusing himself, turned to Ruth Walstone and said, ‘Would you mind if I talked shop with your husband for a few moments … in private?’
