In all the house, if you do not count the larder, only five windows looked north, and two of those were only lavatory lights. Daphne and Jill, I think, had done very well.
Three days later the first-floor ceiling was run in.
“You’re hurrying, Joseph,” I said. “I’m terribly glad to see it, but tell me why.”
Joseph smiled.
“I have talked with Ulysse,” he said. “This is an unusual year – of weather, I mean. He remembers just such a year before the last war. He cannot read or write, but he notices things.”
“He can sign his name,” said I.
“Yes. He was taught to do that. But he has no idea what the letters mean. And because he has had no education, he is unearthly wise. Monsieur, the harm that is done by this education! These fools of politicians who would not know wisdom if they saw it and keep on bawling that all men must have the same chance. What chance are they speaking of? A chance to make money? No happiness came that way. A chance to learn slick talk and bamboozle your fellow men? Perhaps that is what they mean. Who are the agitators? All of them ‘educated’ men. The uneducated are too honest – too honest and much too wise. More. They are content, Monsieur. Yes, and these prating idiots would ‘educate’ Ulysse – Ulysse whose little finger is thicker than all their loins. He was educated, Monsieur, before they went to their schools. Ulysse is seventy-seven and never in all his life has he been as far as Pau. And yet, I tell you, Monsieur, Ulysse is very much wiser than you or I. But there! I get heated. Politicians have to live. And fools will keep them in office, if they commend the destruction of all that counts.”
“I wholly agree with everything that you say.”
“I thought that Monsieur would, for Monsieur has eyes to see. He builds this house in the mountains, because he is sick of the world. He seeks to withdraw himself – to spend what time he has left among things worth while. And I am the same. I could go to Paris tomorrow – and earn three times the money that I am earning here. And have my ears battered with nothing but communist talk. But here we can see. Always there must be rich, and always there must be poor. It is a law of Nature. But both can be well content. Give me this house, Monsieur, and I should be miserable. I shall come to see Monsieur, of course, in the years to come. We shall walk and talk together, as we do now. But Therèse and Monsieur Carson will be my hostess and host. Ah, well, I have talked too much. But old things go by the board, and the new are nothing worth. Besides, I find it sad to see the world being fooled by a parcel of knaves.
“And now for Ulysse.
“He believes that April and May will be very wet. And that then we shall have a hot summer – almost a drought. And so I must get the roof on. Once the roof is on, it may rain as it likes. But the frame of a roof is of wood, and I do not want that soaked.”
On the first of March, the concrete was run in, and the first floor had a ceiling that nothing would ever move.
The framework of the roof was ready – it had been built at Pau. The tiles had been coming up for the last ten days.
On the tenth of March we drove up, to see the framework in place and the flags of England and France at either end of the ridge-pole which ran from east to west.
The tradition was gratefully honoured. Berry, with Joseph beside him, gave every man two days’ pay.
Then the tiles began to go on – in summer weather. You never saw such a thing. Indeed, it might have been August, but that the sunshine was cold.
“What about the garage?” said Jonah. “I think it’s time we brought the electricity in.”
“And the telephone,” said I. “It’ll save a second trench.”
On the 25th of March the last tile was nailed into place, and two days later the foundations of the garage were laid.
Before the end of the month the brothers requested us to visit their carpenters’ shop.
“The back-staircase is made, Messieurs, and this we should like you to see before it goes up to the site. And we have some shutters and also some window-frames. These we should like you to pass, before we proceed with the rest. A door also. And one or two other things. One morning perhaps. Of course, if Madame and Miladi would care to come…”
I did not say that nothing would have kept them away.
The shops were impressive: I had not known that there were such workrooms in Pau.
First we were shown the staircase, which had been roughly erected – I think for ‘Mesdames’ sake.
This was all of old elm and made as fine a back-staircase as ever was built.
“But where,” said Jonah, “did you get such very fine wood?”
The brothers smiled.
“Monsieur is a connoisseur,” said Henri. “Whenever I hear that an old house is to be pulled down, I visit the scene myself and examine the beams. And if they are sound, I buy them.” He fondled the newel. “This came out of my favourite. I had been keeping that for something worth while. My masons are proud of the work they have done on your house. My carpenters’ one idea is to equal the work they have done. Such rivalry is good, Monsieur. It is good for you and for me, and it is good for the men. If you knew the pleasure, Monsieur, of building for someone who cares.”
We passed to the shutters. These were all of oak and were very well done.
“All seasoned oak,” said Henri. “Neither sun nor snow will move it – that I will guarantee.”
We could find no fault at all with the oak window-frames.
But the sample door was too thin.
But for that, it was an excellent door. It was a plain sheet of oak – not solid, of course. Two sheets of oak had been ‘applied’ to a frame. Every door in the house was to be made like that.
“Thicker, still?” said Henri.
“Seven centimetres,” said I.
(That is two and three quarter inches. I like a door you can feel.)
“It shall be as Monsieur says.”
The library was to be panelled. We did not like the moulding and promised to provide a design.
“And the front door?” said Jill.
“I await the oak, Miladi. I am not yet satisfied. Be sure I shall find it. And when it is made, four men will scarcely be able to lift it up. Such a house deserves such a door. Miladi will come and see it when it is being built.”
“If I shall not be in the way, I hope to visit your workshops many times.”
“They are open to you, Miladi, whenever you please to come.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
Jill never said a word that she did not mean.
In the next two months, she spent more time in the shops than anyone else. It was she who designed the moulding and saw it cut. It was she who chose the door-handles and had the happy idea of doing away with locks on the bedroom doors. Instead, they were fitted with ‘buttons’, a bolt which you shoot by hand when you are within the room. A miniature door-handle. Very unobtrusive. To be found in lavatories.
I shall always remember Saturday, April the third.
That day we determined to visit Paradise.
On the way, we picked up a puncture just short of Mirelle.
Mirelle has a marble mill; and, whilst Carson was changing the wheel, we walked to the office and asked if we might be permitted to see the mill at work.
The foreman was most obliging.
The torrent provided all the electric power – a fact which made me envious. If we had had but half such a head of water, we could have had turbines installed and had as much power as we pleased.
We saw the saws at work and then the primitative polishers, doing a lovely job. No doubt the methods were old-fashioned, but I have yet to see more perfect results.
As we took our leave, very much wiser—
“There is,” said the foreman, “a great deal of waste in this place. Many bits and pieces of marble are thrown away. If Messieurs desire any ash-trays, it will be a pleasure to make them – in my spare time. I have a platter here…”
It was a beautiful platter �
�� and would have been sold in London for two or three pounds. He asked us seven shillings and would have taken less.
We ordered a dozen ash-trays and promised to give him the pattern next time we went by.
It was as we were leaving that Berry let out a squeal.
“What on earth’s the matter?” said Daphne.
“Marble,” said Berry. “Marble. That’s what I want to floor the soap-niche with. Of course it’s ideal. Marble. I’ll do a little design and bring it next time we come. Yes, you may laugh, if you please: but you don’t know how to live. You can talk of ferro-concrete and stairs of elm. But who ever heard of a soap-niche floored with marble? Joseph and Lavarini will be beside themselves. Can’t we go up by the site? I’d like to break the good news.”
We declined to go up by the site and proceeded to Paradise.
The pool would be out of the question – as it would be out of sight. A frantic river would be raging where it had been. But there was always the meadow – the little, English meadow, locked in the arms of France.
We passed the Customs’ control and told them that we would be back in two or three hours: we climbed the curling shelf that led to Spain: and then we slid off to the left and down the shadowy ramp, that left the road for the valley we knew so well.
A furious head of water was coming down, lashing the rocks till they shuddered, filling the chasm with thunder and snaring a precious rainbow in one of its clouds of spray.
For two or three minutes we watched it, standing upon the bridge. Nature was giving battle and setting forth her standard, as decent captains should.
And then we turned to our meadow…
This had been straitly fenced, since we saw it last. And two notice-boards were blaring their ugly news.
PROPRIETE PRIVE
DEFENSE D’ENTRER
We stared upon them in silence.
“Oh, well,” said Daphne, at last. “I suppose we were trespassing.”
My brother-in-law was less lenient.
“Thrombosis of the spleen,” he said shortly. “The lousy, black-livered skunks. They’ve lain in watch and observed the very great pleasure we had of that pretty field. And that was enough for them. What harm did we ever do? We never left any traces, we always shut the gate. But they saw that we enjoyed it – and that was enough for them.”
Jill was halfway to tears.
“But it’s so gratuitous. Of course we’d have asked, if there’d ever been anyone here. But there never was.”
“They didn’t appear,” said Berry. “All right. Let them have their meadow. I wouldn’t set foot in it now for a thousand pounds.”
Whilst Carson was turning the car, I walked up round the meadow to look at the little barn. Even this was padlocked. Whoever owned the meadow was determined to hold what he had.
There are people like that – in England as well as in France. We had invaded no privacy: there was no privacy to invade. Neither had we done damage: there was no damage to do. All the same, we had done trespass. And the owner had every right to warn us off. It was very childish of us to take offence. Still, we were disappointed. Paradise was lost.
13
In Which We Watch Magic Made,
and Jill has her Heart’s Desire
Ulysse was right.
On the fifth of April the rain began to come down, and we hardly saw a fine day before the middle of May. But, since the roof was on, the work within the house proceeded apace. The work without was not stopped, but it was much interfered with for those six weeks. All the same, we could not complain, for at every critical moment the weather had seen us through.
Since spring was now in, we began to think of the garden.
The first thing we did was to sow the long, low barrow which lay where the lower half of the ruisseau had run. This, with good, meadow grass, which would not only clothe the soil, but would hold it in place. Then we planted the great slope of soil above the semicircular wall. This we planted with baby, evergreen shrubs; for seed scattered here was sure to be washed away, but the roots of the shrubs would go down and would grip the soil. Then we turned to the terraces. The loam was rich, but the number of stones it kept was unbelievable. And Daphne and Jill were relentless. The stones must go.
One thing, at least, we were spared, and that was transporting the stones to some desert place, for the terraces had to have paths. I will swear that those paths will last as long as the house, for all their beds are of stone – some eighteen inches thick. So the Romans built their roads. Later on they were to be paved.
The middle terrace on the east was to be our lawn: all the others would be reserved for flowers. But you cannot manage a garden, when you dwell some twenty-five miles from where the garden lies. So we did no more than prepare it, against the day when we should return to Bel Air. Besides, we had plenty to attend to, if we were to have the house as we wished it to be.
The plumbing was far advanced before April was out. Before the roof had gone on, a monster tank had been hauled up to the attic, and pipes were leading from this all over the house. This tank received the main water from Lally’s source. (The water which ran in our pipes never saw the light of day until whosoever required it opened a tap; for the fountain from which it came was snared under ground. Indeed, by Roger’s advice, we never drank it at once, but allowed it to stand for a moment and so to breathe.) A mighty hot-water cistern stood in the furnace-room. By Arripe’s advice – I should say, at his earnest desire – we had decided that the furnace should be fed upon oil.
“The advantages, Messieurs, are great. True, it will cost more to install: but, once it is in, it is clean, it requires no labour and it controls itself. And the fuel is no more expensive than anthracite. If Messieurs agree, Monsieur Carol and I will set up an apparatus which you can forget.
“Let us take the hot water first. You must always have constant hot water. Very well. That will be maintained by means of a thermostat. When the water begins to grow cold, the furnace will spring to life. Six baths running will make no difference at all. No question of stoking arises. The furnace will supply what the thermostat may demand.
“And now for the central heating. This Messieurs will only require when the winter is here. But this house is very well placed. There will be many days in the winter, when it will be full of sun. So the heat must be regulated. Very well. We install a clock – an electric clock, which will always keep perfect time and will do as you say. To this clock you will give your orders; and the clock will see that the furnace carries them out. For instance, at six in the morning, the heat will begin to come on. But at ten o’clock in the morning the sun will begin to grow hot: so at ten o’clock the furnace will go off duty. But at four in the afternoon, it will resume its labours, which it will pursue, say, till midnight, by which time you will have retired. Now this is all very well. But supposing you have bad weather and see no sun. For that, a switch is provided – I think that it should be fixed on the library wall. A touch upon that, and you overrule the clock. More or less heat, exactly as you desire. And the clock will pick up your ruling and do as your finger says.”
“Such a system will suit me,” said Berry. “Can I have another switch in my bedroom, in case I feel cold at night?”
“But why not, Monsieur? I find that a good idea.”
Berry looked round.
“You know,” he said, “I’m going to like this house. It’s going to prolong my life. And I like obedient gadgets. You haven’t got any taps that know their names?”
Our decision to use an oil-burning furnace meant that we must have a tank in which the oil could be stored – just as petrol is stored in the tank of a car. The comparison is really exact. So a tank like a submarine was sunk in the terrace which was to be our lawn. This terrace was of the level which the engine required, but the lawn would not be disfigured, for two feet of soil would lie upon the top of the tank. There was certainly a manhole, but that would be covered by a flag. To fill this tank was simple. A pipe was run down
underground to where the garage apron would lie. The waggon would run on to that and would then connect its pipes and pump the fuel up.
Meanwhile Lavarini continued to lay and to hang his tiles, Carol continued to run his screwed-steel pipes, the carpenters’ shop was making shutters and doors, and Daphne and Jill were discussing washable paints.
The back stairs were hung in April. These led up to a landing, as I have said. And from the landing, a smaller flight led to the attic, now being lined and floored. This made a spacious apartment. The pitch of the roof was steep, in case of snow, and so there was headroom to spare. There was but one window, and so its recesses were dim, but electric light was there, and a plug for a radiator, in case it was very cold. In fact, the attic covered the whole of the house. There was ample room for our luggage and things like that, and wires were stretched from the beams that clothes could be hung to dry. With such a place and ‘the guard-room’ we should be very well served, for the latter would make such a workshop as many employers of labour would be very glad to have. And neither attic nor guard-room had cost us a penny-piece. They were incidents of building. The guard-room we owed to the mountains – that I admit. But I must confess that in more than one modern house, that I have explored, the attic has been a quarter one tries to forget. It seems to be in the tradition that attics should be approached through a hole in the floor – an inconvenient method, as anyone will allow. Often enough, they are neither floored nor lighted – two things which work together against their habitual use. And so all that room is wasted… But then we were heretic. We had no architect.
Early in May the fireplaces began to go up. I say ‘go up’, because they were built by an expert with little toy bricks. Very delicate work it was, but, so far as I saw, he never made a mistake. The recesses to hold the wood were framed in oak. Plate glass was cut, to lie on each mantelpiece. Between this and the brick would lie mats which the girls and Therèse would adorn. These sheets of glass were inlaid: that is to say, the bricks on the edge were laid a fraction higher than those within; so that, once the glass was in place, it could not move.
House That Berry Built Page 21
