CHAPTER XII
TWENTY-ONE
Denny Cradock and Leo Bagby crossed the lawn from the river, towelling their heads vigorously. It was half-past eight on a July morning; and, despite the fact that under the provisions of that gratuitous piece of officiousness, The Summer Time Act, it was really only half-past seven, the temperature was almost that of high noon.
Our friends, considerably increased in stature since last we saw them, were attired in pyjamas. Denny sported an ordinary red-and-white stripe; but Master Leo, whose tastes were more exotic, flew colours which put the roseate hues of early dawn to shame. They entered the open window, threw down their damp towels, after the manner of the eternal small boy, upon one of Mildred’s spotless chair-covers, and cast appreciative eyes upon the harbinger of breakfast—a steaming jorum of porridge upon the sideboard.
As they appeared in the window, a neat ankle disappeared through the swing door leading to the kitchen. Denny noted the phenomenon, and stood for a moment rooted in contemplation. Leo, who was not interested in such matters at that hour of the morning, remarked:
‘Hallo! Post not come yet?’
‘No,’ replied Denny, gathering his wits; ‘we’re a bit rural up this backwater. We don’t live in marble halls like Middlefield. Are you expecting a letter?’
‘Er—yes; from my accountant.’
‘Chartered, or turf?’
‘The latter. Can I have some porridge?’
‘What—before you dress?’
‘Yes; it’s part of my system of diet.’ Ripening years had produced in Leo a curious fussiness about himself and his health, strongly reminiscent of that excellent but tiresome person, his late mother. ‘Shall I explain it to you?’
‘No!’
‘Very well, then. If one takes porridge actually at breakfast, it cramps one’s style for the remainder of the meal; whereas if one takes it now, and then goes up to dress, it gives the porridge time to shake down, and so clears the track for more delectable fare.’
‘It must be an awful thing,’ said Denny, smoothing his hair at the mirror over the mantelpiece, ‘to go through life soliloquising about food. And why don’t you sit down when you eat?’
Leo, impervious to these criticisms, continued to stand at the sideboard, gulping down porridge and cream with a tablespoon.
‘There is a little Scottish blood in me,’ he explained. ‘Scotsmen always eat porridge standing up, and without sugar. I take sugar; otherwise I am whole-heartedly Caledonian in the matter of cereal food.’
‘You’re a drivelling idiot,’ replied his friend dispassionately.
‘Talking of food,’ continued Leo, ‘why were the festivities in connection with the twenty-first anniversary of your deplorable birth held last night? Are we going to have a second blow-out to-night, or what? By the way, I haven’t wished you many happy returns yet. I now do so. Cheerio!’ He waved his spoon in his host’s direction.
‘Thanks,’ said Denny. ‘We had to anticipate a bit, on account of Molly: her half-term leave just fitted in. She goes back to clink this morning. I see Kent are putting it across Yorkshire.’
‘Hallo, have you got a paper?’ Leo abandoned his porridge bowl and leaned over the back of Denny’s chair. ‘Does it say anything about the runners for the Ascot Gold Cup??
‘You are breathing porridge into my left ear,’ Denny pointed out. ‘As for the Gold Cup, take the advice of an older and wiser man than yourself—’
‘I’m older than you, you ass.’
‘In years, possibly; but remember that you are mentally extinct, and always have been—and keep away from horses. Stick to botany, or fretwork, or keeping white mice, or talking to yourself about your stomach; but give up this habit of backing a loser every afternoon at three o’clock. Have your hobbies, my lad, but keep them at popular prices.’
Denny rose and punched his friend playfully in the diaphragm. He was a lusty youth, a full head taller now than Leo, and he no longer cherished any of his ancient respect for the latter’s not inconsiderable sinews.
‘Come and dress,’ he continued. ‘We’re going for a picnic lunch up Ripleigh Reach, for Uncle Tony’s benefit.’
‘Ah, the old boy from India? A trip on the river will do his liver a bit of no good. I enjoyed meeting him again last night: we had quite a long conversation. Really a very intelligent old fellow!’
With these gracious and amiable words, Mr. Bagby disappeared in the direction of his bedroom. It was to be noted, however, that his host did not immediately follow him. Denny’s eyes were again turned upon the swing door leading to the back premises. He stood before it in an attitude of abstracted meditation with his feet rather far apart, caressing his upper lip with the tips of his fingers—a habit for which his mother and sister had frequently chaffed him, for as yet there was nothing to be seen there. However, as the door showed no disposition to resume its oscillations, Denny delivered himself of a sentimental sigh and went upstairs, whistling.
As so often happens in this life, the event for which he could not wait occurred directly after his departure. The swing door opened, and the owner of the neat ankle reappeared. Her name was Simmons, and she was a pretty, fluffily fair damsel of about twenty, with large sentimental blue eyes and a silly but attractive mouth. There was nothing of the pert chambermaid about her: she was a perfectly unsophisticated village girl, whom Mildred Cradock was trying to train into a good parlourmaid.
Simmons carried a tray, upon which reposed a massive tobacco jar and the morning’s letters, most of which were naturally for Denny. Having deposited the jar in Denny’s place, and buttressed it with correspondence, Simmons looked furtively round her and produced a small packet from the pocket of her apron. This she slipped under Denny’s table-napkin. Then, after a further glance in the direction of the staircase just outside the door, she tiptoed to the little table in the corner, where Mrs. Cradock kept the photographs of her three children, and, having selected that of the son of the house, bestowed upon it a trembling kiss.
Next moment there came a light step upon the staircase. The guilty Simmons set down Denny and his silver frame as if they had been red-hot, and made a dive for the empty porridge bowl of Leo Bagby, which reposed upon a chair near by. Joan Cradock entered—cool, summery, nineteen—radiant youth personified. She was smoking the pre-breakfast cigarette affected by this sophisticated generation.
‘Has the post come yet, Simmons?’ she inquired.
‘Yes, Miss,’ replied that quaking damsel. ‘It’s nearly all for Mr. Denis this morning. This’—she indicated the tobacco jar—‘is from all of us downstairs.’
‘I call that very nice of you,’ said Joan. ‘Mr. Denis will come and thank you after breakfast, I’m sure.’
‘Yes, Miss. I’ll tell Cook,’ murmured the fluttered Simmons.
Joan laid a beribboned packet by Denny’s plate, and sat down.
‘Hallo,’ she remarked; ‘some one has been breakfasting here already.’
‘Yes, Miss; it was Miss Molly. She had hers at eight, so as to catch the early train. She’s upstairs now, getting her things on. I’ll clear her place.’
‘Do,’ said Joan. ‘I loathe débris.’
Simmons obediently removed all traces of Molly’s early meal, and disappeared through the swing door. Joan helped herself to tea and toast, and proceeded to sip, munch, and smoke. There came another step on the stair, a mature and weighty step this time. Joan sprang to her feet.
‘Good-morning, Uncle Tony!’ she cried, and ran to the door.
Sir Anthony Fenwick had aged surprisingly little in seven years. He was an Englishman of a definite caste, with the philosophy of life peculiar to his order. He grumbled habitually, but never worried. Perhaps that was why the responsibility of steering an Indian Province through all the swirling uncertainties of the War years had left so little mark upon him. Anyhow, here he was home again, unfeignedly refreshed by the company of his niece and her stimulating family.
He accepted Joan’s friendly peck, and patted her upon the shoulder.
‘Good-morning, Joan. Are we the first?’
‘Oh, no. There’s been a perfect stream of people pouring through this room all morning. Denny, and Bags—’
‘Bags?’
‘Yes—Lionel Bagby. You met him at dinner last night.’
Uncle Tony helped himself to breakfast.
‘Ah, that young gentleman. He told me several things that I had not previously known about the proper way to govern our Eastern Empire. Your fiancé, I gathered?’
Joan blew a reflective cloud of smoke.
‘Well,’ she said calmly, ‘the matter has hardly got beyond the committee stage, as yet.’
‘You mean the local gossips are sitting on it?’
Joan nodded her shingled and shapely young head.
‘Yes. They are a large committee, and they sit heavily. Laura Meakin is chairman. I don’t think they will decide anything for a long time yet; neither shall I.’
‘Wise girl, Joan! But I seem vaguely to recollect Master Bagby in a previous existence. Have I met him before?’
‘Lionel the Terrible,’ said Joan. ‘But not so terrible now, really.’
‘I remember. Rather fussy parents, unless I am mistaken.’
‘Yes. But Mrs. Bagby died during the War—rationing finished her off—and Mr. Bagby has married again. Something with serious views about life, and psycho-analysis. Complexes and inhibitions, and so on. Leo practically lives here now.’
‘I don’t blame him. Wasn’t there a sister?’
‘Yes—Gwen. Rather grand. She married the curate. Two babies.’
‘Wasn’t that rather a blow for Denny?’
‘Oh, bless you, no! Denny has had several affairs since then. He’s a busy boy. One of these days he’ll burn his fingers.’
‘You mean—?’
‘Oh, nothing. I’m sorry Mother isn’t down; she’s upstairs fussing over Molly. Molly really is a great blessing.’
‘She captured my elderly heart the first time I ever saw her,’ said Uncle Tony.
‘Oh, I don’t mean that way. Molly is a great convenience to Denny and me, because she loves being mauled about and mothered. A nice, affectionate, old-fashioned child, a safety-valve for Mother’s maternal instincts. What are you gaping at?’
‘I apologise. You interest me so.’
‘Shock you, you mean?’
Uncle Tony chuckled.
‘Upon my word,’ he said, ‘I don’t know!’
‘You soon will.’
‘The fact is, you are a new type to me. Having spent most of my life in the Orient—’
‘You regard me as an Occidental hussy? I’m sorry. This, for instance.’ Joan waved her cigarette. ‘Do you disapprove of women smoking?’
‘Not in the slightest, so long as they do it in the right way.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘In my young days it was a sign of good breeding in a man to keep his cigar or cigarette in his hand and not in his mouth. Nowadays I constantly see a man slouching into a public place, such as a restaurant, with six inches of cigar or cigarette-holder protruding from his face. Personally I would as soon think of coming in with my hat on. And of course what looks bad in a man looks worse in a woman.’
Joan nodded thoughtfully.
‘I see,’ she said, ‘I hadn’t thought of it in that way.’
‘So I observed. With you smoking is an elegant gesture. You don’t sit with clenched teeth, emitting noxious vapours; you hold your cigarette prettily and naturally in your fingers, and it is a pleasure to watch you.’
‘You have got some nice ideas about things, Uncle Tony,’ said Joan—‘especially about keeping your cigarette in your mouth being like a man wearing his hat in the house. Thank you for telling me that.’
Uncle Tony smiled.
‘My dear, I am proud to be able to tell this generation anything. Heigh-ho! If Youth but knew!’ He wandered to the window and looked out. ‘Is that a car I hear?’
‘Yes, for Molly. I’ll call her. No, here she is with Mother, at last.’
Mildred bustled in, with Molly’s arm in hers.
‘You must think me a most neglectful hostess, Uncle Tony,’ she said, after the salutations inseparable from breakfast-time at Abbot’s Mill, ‘but I was getting this child ready for her journey. Say good bye, dear.’
Molly, in the regulation blue serge and coloured hat-ribbon of schoolgirldom, approached her grand uncle with solemn eyes. Her hands were behind her back. Joan, noticing, uttered a sisterly groan.
‘Will you write your name in my autograph book, please, Uncle Tony?’ The words came with a rush.
‘With pleasure.’
‘The pestilential nuisances who write for autographs;
All people who have flabby hands and irritating laughs;
All children who—’
Joan caught her mother’s eye.
‘Sorry, Mum!’ she said. ‘My sense of humour again!’ And she composed herself meekly upon the sofa, with ‘The Daily Mirror.’
Meanwhile, Molly’s mop-head had approached close to Sir Anthony’s, and her gruff little voice was unfolding the mysteries of the autograph book.
‘Don’t write on those pages: they’re only for girls, you know. Write on this one, or that. The pink is the nicest, I think. No, not on that: that’s Lord Roberts’s page.’
‘Where did you catch Lord Roberts?’ asked Uncle Tony, contending with Molly’s fountain pen, which was playing freely.
‘I met him when I was quite little—’
‘And what are you now?’ Needless to say, the question came from the sofa.
‘I’m nearly sixteen!’ said Molly unexpectedly. In truth, she looked more like twelve. ‘It was at a fancy fair, and I sold him a box of matches. When I told him that my father had fought under him in South Africa, he gave me a kiss.’
‘The child was quite shameless,’ said Mildred proudly.
‘And so Lord Roberts gets a page to himself,’ remarked Sir Anthony.
‘No.’ Molly glanced towards Joan, and lowered her voice. ‘There’s another name there, too,’ she said, in a husky whisper.
‘I don’t see it.’
‘It’s—it’s a pretend of mine. I like to believe it’s there—that’s all. I can’t explain.’ Molly’s face had grown very red.
‘The child is mentally deficient, we fear,’ remarked a level voice from behind ‘The Daily Mirror.’
‘Write your name next to some one you like,’ said Molly hurriedly.
‘Do you think Rudyard Kipling would object if I put myself down in this corner, near him?’
‘I don’t think he would a bit. He knows about India, too. Here’s the blotting-paper. Thank you ever so much, dear Uncle Tony.’ A comprehensive embrace followed. ‘Mind you’re here when I come home for the holidays.’
‘When will that be?’ inquired a strangled voice.
‘The beginning of August.’
‘I will book the date forthwith.’
‘Come along, Littlest, or you’ll lose the train!’ commanded Mildred, collecting sundry dropped belongings.
‘All right, Mum.’ Molly dashed across to the sofa, kissed her elder sister, dashed back to kiss her uncle again, then dashed out of the room.
‘Have you said good-bye to Denny?’ inquired her mother’s anxious voice.
‘Have you said good-bye to the cat?’ called Joan.
‘Yes—upstairs,’ replied Molly, referring probably to her brother. ‘Have you got my sandwiches? Thank you, Mum, dear. And chocolates! Ooh!’
Their voices died away. Joan rose, and lit a fresh cigarette.
‘What a blessed thing is Youth!’ she said. ‘Uncle Tony, you are looking at me again.’
‘You are very easy to look at, my dear.’
‘I suppose the flippancy of this generation shocks you.’
‘Heaven forgive me, I rather like it! I was just wondering where you got yours from. Not from your mother, I’ll be bound.’
‘No. Mother is much too maternal to have any sense of humour—not what you or I would consider a sense of humour. I don’t think I can have got it from my father either.’
‘I never knew him.’
‘Neither did I, for that matter. At least, I was about two when he died. But from Mother’s account of him, he never sounded particularly frivolous.’ Joan sat suddenly up on the sofa, cross-legged and serious. ‘Uncle Tony, what’s your candid opinion of Ancestor Worship? Do you consider it a really sportsmanlike religion?’
One of the likable things about Sir Anthony was his readiness to adapt himself to impulsive changes of conversation.
‘I have never come sufficiently in contact with it, my dear,’ he said gravely, ‘to make up my mind on the matter.’
‘Well, stay here a bit longer, and you will!’ Joan rose to her feet and began to walk about the room, with her attractive boyish stride. ‘This family of ours has been trained to model itself day by day, year by year, upon a male parent whom none of us can remember, and whom one of us never even saw. We have Father for breakfast, Father for lunch, Father for dinner. He has been with us from our cradles: he is a standing work of reference of the most irritating kind. He never got his feet wet, or employed slang expressions; he never smoked in bed, or left bills unpaid; he was clean in person, courteous to those of humble station, and kind to animals. He went to church twice on Sundays, and wore nice sensible underclothing all the year round. He must have been a most exhausting person to live with. Yet Mother worships his memory.’ She pulled herself up suddenly. ‘Does that sound unfilial, Uncle Tony, or irreverent?’
‘It sounds very human, my dear.’
‘That’s just the word! I am awfully human, and I can’t worship a-a—what’s the expression?’
‘An abstraction?’
‘That’s right. I can’t speak in a hushed voice of the dead—especially the dead I never knew. I suppose if I had known my father in the flesh I shouldn’t be talking like this; it would be disloyal. Of course, I never say these things to Mother; it would hurt her.
It’s the one thing she seems to be really sensitive about.’
‘I understand, my dear.’
‘We take some understanding,’ said Joan. ‘We’re a queer family.’
‘All families are queer. Even when they are not, they like to think they are. But I know how you feel. You and Master Denny are modern, and you chafe under Apron Strings—eh?’
Joan nodded her head.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said. ‘And Ancestors.’
‘They are much the same thing.’
Joan nodded her head again.
‘I suppose that’s true,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Do talk to Mother about them. Here she is. Hallo, Mum! Has your favourite child departed at last?’
‘Isn’t that a shame?’ asked Mildred of Sir Anthony. ‘They know I have no favourites in this house hold; and yet—’
‘’Ere’s a nice ’ot cup of tea for you, dearee,’ said Joan soothingly.
‘Thank you, darling. Of course Molly, being the old-fashioned one, responds a little more—’
‘All right, Mum! It was only a leg-pull, as usual. Have you seen Denny’s presents?’
‘No, dear.’ Mildred observed the tobacco jar for the first time. ‘What is this?’
‘That is from Cook, Jane, Tweeny, and Simmons, with a loving kiss.’
‘How good of them! I must add mine to the collection. I’ll just slip it under his napkin.’
‘My poor mother, you can’t slip a cowhide suitcase under a folded napkin.’
‘He has had the suitcase,’ said Mildred, producing a sealed envelope a little guiltily. ‘This is just a small tip.’
‘I shall remember that when my turn comes!’ remarked her daughter darkly.
Mildred lifted the napkin.
‘There’s something here already,’ she said. ‘Another present—and it hasn’t come by post. I wonder whom it is from. You, dear?’
‘No. My offering is that package with the red ribbon—a cigarette case. Perhaps it’s from Molly.’
‘The child gave him hers last night. Was it you, Uncle Tony?’
‘No. Mine is still in my pocket. It will be handed over shortly, accompanied by an improving discourse from Godfather.’
‘I wonder if it would be fair to have a peep at it,’ suggested Mildred.
‘Why not?’ said Joan, taking the packet.
‘He’ll be terribly cross if he catches us.’
‘Never mind; chance it!’ Joan unrolled the paper and disclosed a horseshoe scarf-pin.
‘What a funny little present!’ said Mildred.
‘Nine-carat gold!’ commented Joan.
‘With an inscription. What does “Mizpeh” mean, I wonder?’
‘It means,’ remarked Joan, with a sudden glance towards the swing door, ‘that Master Denny is getting rather a big boy.’ She turned suddenly upon her uncle. ‘What sort of discourse are you going to deliver to him, Uncle Tony?’
‘I don’t know. Can you suggest a text?’
‘I could; but I won’t.’
‘I shall be so glad if you will say a word to him, Uncle Tony,’ interposed Mildred. ‘I was wondering only this morning what advice his father—’
Joan rolled up her blue eyes towards the ceiling.
‘Now we’ve done it, Uncle Tony!’ she said.
‘Done what, my dear?’
‘Started Mother. Ancestor Worship has commenced for the day!’
Further irreverence was prevented by the entry of Denny himself, followed by Leo, both immaculate in white flannels. Mildred embraced her son.
‘Denny, dearest,’ she said, ‘bless you! Have a happy birthday!’
For a moment Denny’s schoolboy reserve melted, and he hugged his mother, nursery fashion. Then he acknowledged the congratulations of his uncle and sister, and turned to the table.
‘Presents!’ he exclaimed. ‘Loud applause!’
The next few minutes were devoted to the tearing asunder of parcels; after which, at the earnest solicitation of Mr. Bagby, Denny ceased throwing brown paper about the room and sat down to bacon and eggs. It is to be noted, however, that he made no reference to the horseshoe scarf-pin.
‘Eat up your breakfast quickly, boys,’ said Mildred. ‘I want you to get the launch ready: we’re going to take Uncle Tony up Ripleigh Reach.’
‘Picnic lunch?’ inquired Joan.
‘Yes.’
‘That means,’ explained Joan to Sir Anthony, ‘that about one o’clock you will find yourself sitting on a wasps’ nest, eating chicken salad with a fountain pen. You two lads had better have some more sausages, to pull you through the day. You coming, too, Mother?’
‘Oh, yes; I must be with you to-day. I’ll run off and perform my household duties now, and get them over.’
‘Run rapidly,’ advised Joan, glancing out of the window, ‘or Laura will catch you!’
‘Laura Meakin?’ exclaimed Mildred. ‘Oh, dear!’
There were panic-stricken exclamations from all parts of the room.
‘Who is Laura Meakin?’ inquired Sir Anthony.
‘The Human Blister,’ replied Denny.
‘She was away last time you were here, I think,’ said Mildred. ‘I seem to remember—’
‘I bet she’s going to make up for lost time now,’ remarked Joan. ‘Be absolutely firm with her, Uncle; and, if necessary, brutal!’
‘Don’t promise to take the chair at anything,’ said Denny.
‘And mind you don’t breathe a word about the picnic, or she’ll come, too,’ added Joan.
‘Here she is,’ hissed Denny. ‘Take cover!’
A firm step crunched the gravel outside, and Miss Laura Meakin appeared in the window.