“The walls will not be started until the week after next. They can’t go wrong with the woodwork. Let’s go to Freilles on Monday for three or four days.”
After a moment’s hesitation—
“Right oh,” said everyone.
We had spent a week at Biarritz in April, and, whilst we were there, we had taken a look at Freilles. This was a little resort, some twenty miles north of Bayonne. It was sunk in the pinewoods, on the edge of the roaring surf, and it was being very well done. I say ‘was being’, because it had not been developed. Freilles was in existence, but it was hardly known.
That evening I telephoned to a tiny hotel…
My sister laid a hand on my arm.
“Freilles on Monday,” she said. “D’you know – before we go, I’d love to see over my home. Quite quietly, you know. When nobody else is there. Could we get up early on Monday, just you and I?”
“Very early,” said I. “The painters will be here by seven.”
“What about six?”
I sighed.
“I wouldn’t do it,” I said, “for anyone else.”
I thought it best to tell Joseph.
“That is right and proper,” he said, “that Madame should consider her home, with nothing to distract her – no workmen, no noise, no movement… The house to herself. All shall be ready, Monsieur, on Monday at six o’clock.”
“But you’ll be at Pau,” said I. “You must leave me the keys.”
“No, Monsieur: I shall be here. I shall not be seen, of course; but I shall be here. From now on, I sleep in the guard-room. It is my will. Till Mesdames and Messieurs enter, I shall not leave the house.”
“You’re very good, Joseph,” I said.
“It is my pleasure, Monsieur.”
“And I am going to Freilles, to lie on the plage.”
“That is as it should be, Monsieur. But I shall be happier here. To be honest, I slept here last night: and I stood on the terrace this morning and watched the dawn get up. It was a famous experience. Believe me, I shall be sad when my tenancy comes to an end.”
“We’ll be back on Friday, Joseph. I’ll ring you up each day at a quarter past two.”
Joseph inclined his head.
“And I shall be ready and waiting to listen to Monsieur’s voice.”
Daphne looked up at the house.
“Why everything’s open,” she said. “And the awnings are down.”
“Yes,” I said; “that’s Joseph. But nobody will be there.”
“What a dear he is,” said Daphne. “He has the most charming nature. How can we ever repay him for all he’s done?”
“I don’t think we can. We can only keep up with him and make him welcome here whenever he comes.”
As we came to the entrance-drive—
“Don’t think me foolish, Boy; but I’ve a whim to enter the house by the terrace.”
“Splendid,” said I. “We’ll go by the little footpath we’ve made through the scarecrow field. That’ll bring us up to the garden; and then we can walk along and take the terrace steps.”
We passed through the dewy meadows, glanced at the ruisseau thundering through its grille and into its pipe, and, taking the upper terrace, approached the house from the west.
As I have said, the stone terrace proper was seven feet longer than the house: so we could gain it, without passing through the house: this, on the west side only, but that was the way we had come.
We passed up the three broad steps and moved to the parapet…
And there lay a bouquet of flowers.
The dew was still upon them. They must have been growing in their garden a short half-hour before.
The scrap of ribbon that bound them was threading a battered card.
Je présente à Madame, avec mon plus profond respect, l’assurance de tout mon dévouement.
JOSEPH.
My sister read the card. Then she picked up the bouquet and put it up to her face…
With one accord we entered the library.
Facing us was the door, with book-shelves on either hand. These rose to the ceiling: below them ran a series of cupboards, each of which could be locked. To our right stood a wide brick fireplace: on our left, two large French windows, now open wide, were commanding the sweep of the valley and the road running up towards Besse. Behind us, three ‘door-windows’, as they are called in France, gave to the sunlit terrace we had but that moment left. The panelling looked very nice. It was not the ‘linen-fold’, which we had known all our lives: it had not that lovely colour which only age can bring; but it looked very fresh and pleasant, and the moulding which Jill had designed was a great success.
I opened the plain oak door and we entered the gallery.
The morning sun was lighting it halfway down, just reaching the foot of the semicircular stair, which rose to our left. The doors of the rooms were shut, and their plain sheets of oak looked well. It was all very simple, but it had dignity.
Immediately on our left, the flash of blue and white tiles declared the lavatory. In the telephone booth, by its side, a broad, oak shelf accepted the telephone: by this lay a pad and pencil, and, just to the right, within reach, was the switch for electric light. The shelf was low, to stand to; but a stool had been made at Asen, so that whoever was speaking could take his seat. Lesser shelves had been hung above the first, for hats and gardening gloves. All the dimensions had been worked out by Berry, and all three walls were sound-proof – that I knew.
I opened the service door, the next on the left.
At once we saw the beauty of Lavarini’s work. The floors were tiled and the walls were tiled head-high. It was fresh and gay and effective. No dirt could lie here. On the right was a spreading switch-board: every fuse upon it was well within reach. On the left was a long row of hooks, on which coats could be hung. Above the hooks hung the only bell in the house. This consisted of two polished, tubular, gongs which, when struck, rendered different notes. One was reserved for the front door and the other for the first floor: if anyone rang from the ground floor, both gongs would sound. (Berry had written to America for this very attractive toy. For some strange reason, it had been sent post free and had cost considerably less than any ordinary bells which we could have purchased in France.)
Daphne tapped with her toe on the floor of the servants’ hall.
“D’you think they’ll be cold?” she said. “We’ll have to give them a rug.”
“There’s a plug,” said I, “for a radiator. And, of course, they’ve the ordinary heating.”
“Tiles make the feet cold,” said Daphne. “ Besides, they’ll love a rug. And the shelf?”
“For the wireless,” said I. “Your husband again. A set is waiting in Pau. Observe the plugs, if you please. One for the power, and one, combined, for the earth and the aerial. We’ve the same in the library.”
The scullery looked very smart. An electric ‘washer’ took up some of its room.
“I hope it works,” said Daphne. “Therèse is mad to try it. If it does, she says, we needn’t send anything out.”
As did the other two rooms, the kitchen looked to the west – over Pernot’s field and the depths of the valley below. Another, ground-glass window gave to the north. Its electric range was in place. All along the length of one wall ran a broad, tiled slab. And there were two fine cupboards from ceiling to floor.
Beyond the kitchen, the lavatory looked very fresh.
Opposite was the larder. Two large, tiled shelves were offering ample space. An electric refrigerator was waiting. A cage, or bin, for bottles stood at the end. And one side was nothing but cupboards, again from ceiling to floor. The open windows faced north and were carefully screened.
“If Eugène complains,” said Daphne, “then he can go.”
We turned and came back to the pantry, facing east. As in the larder, one wall was nothing but cupboards. The sink had been hung at a height which Therèse had determined, ‘for most,’ she said, ‘are either too h
igh or too low.’ The draining-board – eight feet long – was made of some special wood. Berry, Therèse and the brothers had seen to that.
We passed to the furnace-room.
“Make it work, Boy,” said my sister. “Just for fun.”
To be sure that the water was running, I turned on a tap. Then I pressed the master switch…
There was a moment’s hum, and then, with a roar, the furnace sprang to life. I made my sister come down and I opened the furnace door. A gigantic tongue of flame was licking the special bricks.
“It’s very wonderful,” said Daphne. “When I think of all that stoking, and Holly who got up at five to rake the clinkers out.” She pointed to the furnace switch-board. “And now that clock up there will do the whole thing.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“They call it progress,” I said. “I expect they’re right.”
We climbed the old-elm staircase and turned to the left.
The servants’ rooms were all exactly the same, except that Therèse had a pier-glass. Berry had seen to that.
Each had a built-in wardrobe, six feet long. One half was for hanging clothes, and the other was full of shelves. All could be locked and all had different keys. Each room was central-heated, and each had a pleasant basin, with hot and cold running-water, and a looking-glass hung above. The glass and the basin were surrounded by blue and white tiles. Three rooms looked to the east, and two to the west.
We passed to the servants’ bathroom. This had been very well done, in blue and white. The bath was encased. But, instead of a basin, there hung a capacious sink. Hand-washing could be done there. The lavatory stood by itself.
We turned at the end of the passage and made our way back. On our right, the lingerie made an attractive room. One side of it was all cupboards. The shelves were open or slatted, to let pass the heat which would rise from the pipes beneath. This, again, was Berry’s idea. It was he who had carried it out. An electric ‘ironer’ was awaiting experiments.
The lingerie looked to the west.
We let the attic go, and passed across the landing, through the service door and into the gallery. As was its fellow below, this was full of sunlight and sweet, fresh air.
Immediately on our left, the bathroom door was open, and the bathroom itself was alight with the morning sun. This, of course, was Daphne’s.
All powder-blue and white, it filled the eye. The floor and the walls were blue, and the bath and the basin were white. It was an ‘apron’ bath and it looked as though it had been moulded out of some gleaming stone. The sponge- and soap-niche beside it were almost too good to be true. On either side of the basin, a looking-glass hung. Over each had been placed a shaded electric light. The window was naturally recessed. Beneath the window was a shelf, all tiled in blue. And beneath the shelf were cupboards…
It was the finest bathroom I ever saw. And Berry had done it all. And when I say that, I mean it. No one had dared to interfere.
A second door from the bathroom led into his bedroom and Daphne’s.
On the left were two windows, admitting the morning sun. Between them was a built-in wardrobe of vast capacity. In front, were two more windows commanding the south. Between these hung a pier-glass. On the right was a pleasant fireplace, fashioned of brick. A second door led into the gallery.
Next to their room, facing south, were two rooms exactly the same. These were mine and Jonah’s. Each had a built-in wardrobe, a fireplace of brick, and a pier-glass between the two windows, which Berry had placed.
Then came Jill’s room. This was a lovely chamber, with its private bathroom beyond. The bathroom again was all blue, but the bedroom was to be white. The bathroom faced west, and a door gave out of that to the end of the gallery.
There we turned, to face east.
On our left two capacious cupboards delighted my sister’s heart. Then came another bathroom, Jonah’s and mine – again hung and floored with blue tiles. And then, all at once, we came to the head of the stairs.
Down these my sister passed…
Turning to the left, we came to the massive front door. This was open wide, and standing there we could hear the fountain playing some twenty-five paces away.
Immediately on our right was the morning-room. Here two large French windows gave to the east, commanding a glorious view of the Pic de Fer. Two more ‘door-windows’ gave to the terrace without. Another fireplace in brick had been built in the western wall.
Between this and the library lay two smaller rooms – first a withdrawing-room – for Jill and Daphne alone, and then the dining-room. Both opened on to the terrace, but nowhere else.
The whole of the front of the house was lit by indirect lighting. Because of the daylight, we could not prove it now, but the plaster bowls, within which the reflectors lay hid, were very good-looking, yet inconspicuous. (I call them ‘bowls’, for lack of a better term. They resembled bowls cut in half and then applied to the wall.) They were of course, to be painted with the same colour as their walls. Berry had sited every one with the greatest care – as well as every plug, for the day would come when we should have reading-lamps.
It was all very simple and direct. There were no frills. We had our quarters in the cross, and the servants had theirs in the stem – of the capital T. The whole house was full of light. It was certainly labour-saving – no doubt about that. And it was very convenient, and had been very well built.
We walked back up the gallery and out of the great front doorway into the porch beyond. The front door was facing north, but the porch faced west. We left the porch and turned right, to descend the ninety-three steps.
“I’m very lucky,” said Daphne. “Little more than a year ago, I was accepting the fact that never in all my life should I have a home again. And here I have a new home – a very beautiful home, much nicer than I deserve. Boy, you know, we’ve a lot to be thankful for.”
Be sure I agreed with her. White Ladies belonged to England. But here was ‘a foreign field’ that belonged to England, too.
From Lally to Freilles is roughly one hundred miles.
You can go by Pau and take the route nationale. Or you can strike across country and go by Oloron. If we went by Oloron, we should be traversing the region which Shapely had seen fit to visit on September the first.
The others took the Rolls and travelled by Pau. But Jonah and I took the Andret and went by Oloron.
The country was more than handsome. The foot-hills were in all their glory. The river, the Gave d’Oloron, was very plainly rejoicing to run his course. Hill and dale, meadow and woodland made up a panorama fit for the gods. We met a little traffic, but not very much. Often enough, we seemed to have the world to ourselves. We passed any number of by-roads and scores of tracks, many of which led into the heart of the woods. If I was right, and Tass lay buried here, his body might as well have been sunk in the ocean itself. That is to say, so far as any search was concerned. Of course, someone might stumble upon it…might…
To prove our case to the hilt, we chose a track at random and drove slowly into the wood which instantly swallowed it up. After two hundred paces, the track seemed to come to an end. We left the car and looked round. Except for the flutter of birds, there was no sign of life. There was not even a footpath; but some aged stumps of trees showed that the track had been used for hauling wood. Without losing sight of the car, a man could have dug at least twenty several graves, not one of which, had he been careful, would ever be found.
I began to wonder why Shapely had taken the trouble to buy any lime…
After a little, we backed the car down to the road and went on our way.
Freilles was certainly attractive. The plage was one of the finest I ever saw. It could have held at least two thousand bathers. That first afternoon I counted seventy-one. Every day we lunched and dined in the open air. This, at our little hotel: but we spent the whole day on the plage, which was ten minutes’ walk. The sun was very hot and the sea was delightfully warm. T
here was no wind. Had Daphne not brought some oil with her, we should have been badly burned.
But Freilles by night was transformed. It became like nothing that I have ever seen – except upon a stage. It was theatrical. The moon hung like a lantern – three times its size. The pines might have been properties, they stood so still. The sand was white. The whole was scenery. There was not a breath of wind, and music from the casino floated out into the woods to wander at will. The ceaseless thunder of the rollers hung upon the air like a back-cloth to lesser sounds, and the world was all black and silver, and still as death.
“It can’t be real,” said Jill, as we strolled down a shadowy road.
“We know it is,” said I. “But Nature is showing Art how to do her stuff. Critics would turn this down, if you shoved it on to the stage. They’d say it was overdone. And I don’t know that you could blame them. No one who hadn’t seen it, would ever believe.”
We wandered past elegant villas, standing well back from the road, and surrounded by pines. As far as I saw, no tree that could be spared had been cut. All windows and doors were open everywhere. You could see right into the rooms and observe the furniture.
The contents of one of the villas took us by storm. Standing in the shadows, we identified more than one piece.
“Look at that candlestick, Boy. What a lovely thing.”
“What about those corner-cupboards? I’ll swear they’re Chippendale.”
“That chest’s Italian. I know it. There used to be two at Irikli. And look at those two stalls. They came out of a church in Spain.”
“Mademoiselle,” said a voice, “is perfectly right. Three hundred years ago they stood in a church in Seville. Please come and look at them closely. The chest I found in Verona a year ago.”
“You’re very forgiving,” said Jill; “but we couldn’t dream of such a thing. I am so very sorry. We didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Mademoiselle has no need to tell me that. But I am an antiquaire. All these things are for sale. So please come in.”
House That Berry Built Page 25
