A Tale of Two Families

  ‘Not on asparagus. They consider it a weed. I’ve got chops for them. I wonder if we could persuade Sarah to come?’

  ‘And how about asking Mildred to come down a day early?’ Fran had finally succeeded in getting Mildred invited to stay for a fortnight, having agreed to extend her own visit and act as chief brunt-bearer.

  May shuddered. ‘I’m not having Aunt Mildred one day before I need to.’

  Baggy came into the Long Room, where his purchases had been set out for inspection. Fran and May received him with grateful enthusiasm.

  ‘Truly magnificent,’ said May, wondering how she could get so much asparagus ready to serve at the same time. Thank God the Matsons would stalk the strawberries. She hoped she’d ordered enough cream… With an effort she got her mind off tomorrow’s feast and on to today’s lunch.

  Hugh and Corinna, on their arrival, were sent to see Baggy’s present, now moved to the long slabs in the old larder.

  ‘Frightening, isn’t it?’ said Hugh.

  ‘Mother wants Sarah to help eat it. How shall we get hold of her? She may come over this afternoon but one can’t count on it. She asked us not to telephone except in some emergency.’

  Hugh, his eyes on the forty-eight bundles of asparagus, said, ‘Well, if this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.’

  After lunch (modest, by May’s standards, chicken and fruit; she had intended to make an exotic pudding but been delayed by the arrival of the feast) Hugh telephoned the Hall, with Corinna standing by. He was about to ring off in despair when Sarah answered. She said she hoped he hadn’t been ringing long – ‘Our telephone’s shut away in a little room nowhere near anywhere. Grandfather doesn’t think telephones should be on the loose. Is anything wrong?’

  Hugh attempted to explain but made no headway. Sarah said, ‘This is a terrible old telephone. Grandfather won’t let the post-office take it away. Could you shout, please?’

  Hugh shouted. Sarah, at last, heard the word ‘asparagus’ but formed the impression that he wanted some. ‘Sorry,’ she told him, ‘our beds were exhausted years ago. Such a shame because I did so adore it.’

  ‘Let me try,’ said Corinna. She then proceeded to speak quite quietly but with careful far-forward enunciation and – miraculously, it seemed to Hugh – Sarah heard. At first she said that coming to lunch was out of the question. Then she wavered. Finally she said, ‘Oh, it would be marvellous. I’ll see if I can arrange anything and then come over and let you know.’

  ‘Don’t bring any spaniels with you,’ said Corinna. ‘Penny’s in season.’

  ‘Oh, goodness! Do be careful with her. I’ll be with you soon.’

  Hugh said, as Corinna hung up, ‘How excellent your voice production must be.’

  ‘I think I’ve got control of it at last. Sir Harry took some of us to an empty theatre one morning and I could make myself heard right to the back of the gallery.’

  Hugh wondered why she hadn’t mentioned this triumph before – she often told him of her failures and of scathing comments Sir Harry had made on them. Perhaps she was going to be good. Hugh hoped so with all his heart. He had taken it for granted that she would eventually have to suffer disappointment. Perhaps he had been accepting her own, very humble, opinion of her work.

  ‘Come and walk through the lilac,’ he said.

  ‘I keep expecting it to be over.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll last a couple of weeks yet unless the weather turns very hot – judging by the lilac bush we had in London.’

  They strolled around the paths and the little hidden garden until they heard Sarah calling them and went to meet her.

  ‘I’ve managed it,’ she cried, triumphantly. ‘The poor old darling couldn’t bear me to miss a gorge of asparagus so he’s going to have his lunch specially early. You mustn’t think it’s he who insists on my being there for meals. It’s just that, if I’m not, I know he doesn’t eat properly.’

  ‘Do you actually have to feed him?’ asked Corinna.

  Sarah looked shocked. ‘Goodness, no. But if he’s on his own he doesn’t concentrate. How marvellous your telephone voice is, Corinna. You seemed to be whispering right in my ear. And how ghastly you must think my voice is. I’ve only known how bad it is this last week. The Vicar’s just got a tape-recorder and he let me hear myself on it. I was shattered – I sounded just like my grandmother. I always knew her voice was awful but I’d no idea mine was the same.’

  Hugh told her she was exaggerating but Corinna simply said, ‘You could cure yourself, Sarah.’

  ‘You mean if I trained, the way you have,’ said Sarah, looking wistful.

  ‘Of course that would be ideal. But I think I could teach you.’

  They had reached the lawn in front of the cottage, where there was some rustic garden furniture bought at a sale by May and painted white.

  ‘Sit down and listen,’ said Corinna. ‘We had a Society girl in Sir Harry’s class who spoke just like you do, and he said it was because she clenched her jaw. That does something terrible to your voice and to your enunciation. Sir Harry made this girl speak with her jaw absolutely slack and it made the most enormous difference – only she kept forgetting and then he’d yell at her, “Unclench, girl!” He says lots of Society women speak that way – and it’s very catching; several of us started speaking with our teeth shut as tight as rat traps. Sir Harry was furious and said, if we didn’t stop it and the girl didn’t stop it, she’d have to go. After that, we were perpetually screaming at her – and at ourselves, “Unclench, unclench!” And she suddenly got cured and now has a particularly nice voice. Do you understand, Sarah? Now unclench, and speak with your jaw slack.’

  After several false attempts Sarah managed a few words in a soft, breathy voice.

  ‘Much better,’ said Corinna, ‘except that now you’re hardly speaking at all. Don’t be nervous. Talk at the top of your voice but keep your teeth unclenched. Do you know any poetry by heart?’

  ‘No,’ said Sarah, in her harshest tone.

  ‘You’ve clenched again. Well, learn some, and practise it with your jaw absolutely dropped – it doesn’t matter if you look like a village idiot. You work on it, hard, and I’ll hear you next week.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could be such a bully, Corinna,’ said Hugh. ‘But I do see what she means, Sarah. Your voice does sound different when you unclench.’

  ‘I shall never remember,’ said Sarah, in her normal voice. She then remembered and repeated the words with a slack jaw and in a deep fruity voice.

  ‘Sounds like Mrs Siddons asking “But will it wash?” said Corinna. ‘You don’t have to be sepulchral, just natural.’

  The conversation continued, with Corinna frequently interjecting ‘Unclench!’ Hugh, impressed, was also a trifle bored. He went off to see Penny.

  The door of the room allotted to her was open and she was not inside. Hugh raised the alarm. She was eventually discovered in Fran’s room. They had both been enjoying an afternoon nap.

  ‘I heard her whimpering,’ said Fran apologetically. ‘Actually, I’ve been having her in my room at night – she gets so lonely. But of course you’ll want her with you, while you’re here.’

  Hugh, both jealous and grateful, said, ‘No, that’d make her miss me more when I go on Monday. She’d better stay with you, Fran.’ He added, with the light of battle in his eye, ‘Have there been any dogs around the house yet?’

  ‘Not yet. She’s nowhere near at her height yet.’

  ‘When did she start?’

  ‘Your mother thinks, last Monday.’

  Hugh, summoning up his recently acquired knowledge, said, ‘Then I think the dangerous time will begin in the middle of next week. I’ll ask Sarah. And please, Fran, do be very careful. Sarah says it would be terribly bad for her to be mated this first time.’

  ‘It certainly would,’ said Fran. ‘She’s nowhere near full grown.’

  ‘I’m afraid she may be,’ said Hugh gloomily.

  ‘Well, she isn’t
. She’s growing all the time. She’s going to make an exquisite dog – aren’t you, my creature?’

  Hugh gave his grandmother a grateful smile, then put Penny on the leash and led her out.

  Halfway through the lilac grove he could hear Sarah and Corinna talking. Again and again Corinna interrupted that conversation with a dictatorial ‘Unclench!’ Well, the elocution lesson must end now. He reached the cottage lawn and claimed Sarah’s full attention for Penny.

  Sarah, after discussion and scrutiny, said she thought Penny’s dangerous period wouldn’t be until the end of the coming week.

  ‘Oh, good!’ said Hugh. ‘I shall be home again by then and can protect her.’

  Sarah grinned. ‘Dogs don’t actually attack the house.’

  ‘But I’ve read they’ve been known to gnaw their way through wood,’ said Hugh.

  ‘But not through brick walls. The Dower House is pretty solid.’

  ‘Unclench,’ said Corinna.

  Hugh said, ‘Darling, could Sarah be let off unclenching until we’ve finished talking about Penny?’

  Corinna subsided. She was, anyway, finding both the conversation and the uninhibited examination of Penny a little embarrassing. No doubt she was being ‘genteel’ – as Sir Harry frequently accused her of being. But he hadn’t accused her of it that day in the empty theatre. She had been alone with him there (the ‘some of us’ mentioned to Hugh had been an invention) and highly suspicious of his intentions. His behaviour had, however, been most professional and he had spent much of the time in the gallery, while she remained on the stage. But he had tested her voice production by making her say ‘I love you’ in various ways: gently, desperately, broken-heartedly, passionately, etc. He’d praised her for all these except ‘passionately’ and even then he’d added, ‘Still, imagination did seem to be doing something to help out inexperience.’ Then he’d taken her out to lunch and told her there was just a remote chance that she might be able to act. And he had said nothing whatever about assisting her to a fuller experience of life. Well, of course that was splendid.

  She returned from thoughts of Sir Harry to find Hugh and Sarah now discussing the eventual mating of Penny which sounded even more embarrassing than the present arrangements for her non-mating. She said, It’s teatime, in case either of you are interested. Anyway, Penny looks thirsty. And I’d just like to mention that you’re clenching worse than ever, Sarah.’

  ‘I’ll practise on my own,’ said Sarah. ‘I swear I will. I’ll start as soon as I get home.’

  But when she arrived for the Asparagus Feast next day she was still clenching.

  May afterwards declared that no meal she had ever provided had been so difficult to cope with as Baggy’s asparagus. Saucepans had to be helped out by a fish kettle, a bread tin and an enamel bowl. Even so, she only cooked three dozen bunches. She felt sure that, if she cooked the lot, much would be left uneaten and Baggy would be disappointed. The feast must be a success for him – and she had certainly done her best to make sure it would be, having given instructions for family enthusiasm with the energy of a cheerleader.

  And the meal certainly began well, with the massed asparagus (first instalment) looking magnificent in a mammoth punch bowl. Carrying out Baggy’s wishes May had provided nothing else except melted butter and bread – long French loaves bought in Soho by George. (It was typical of him that he hadn’t in the least minded travelling with them, inadequately wrapped and causing much amusement. Various commuting friends had hankered to duel with them.) And of course George had provided champagne. Baggy had raised no objection to that.

  ‘Well, now,’ said May, as she finally sat down at the table. ‘This is all very exciting.’

  It was as if a starting pistol had been fired. In a desire to please Baggy everyone began to eat quite extraordinarily fast, pausing only to praise and be grateful. The enthusiasm was perfectly genuine until the punch bowl had been replenished with a second instalment. Then the pace slackened and the compliments to Baggy become distinctly histrionic.

  It was soon after this that Robert became so silent that June feared he was feeling ill. The truth was that he’d had the idea of putting an asparagus feast into his projected novel. He still intended this to appeal to a vast public – and a vast public, surely, liked to read about food being eaten? He could make something out of the crisp bread and golden butter, of the sunlight glittering on the champagne (it seemed to be getting very hot in the Long Room) but how could one lyrically describe a stick of asparagus? It hadn’t really any beauty, and the piles of sucked stalks were rather disgusting, not to mention the melted butter running down people’s chins. Perhaps he should make his asparagus feast revolting, which would be more in his line – only, this time, he didn’t intend to write that kind of novel. Perhaps… but he suddenly knew he didn’t want to think any more about asparagus for a long time, if ever. He came back into circulation, much to June’s relief.

  May also had become anxious, a fantastic idea having occurred to her. Was there some reason, quite apart from expense, why people usually ate only small quantities of asparagus at a sitting? She had read somewhere that if you ate pigeon every day for forty days you would die. Was there something like that about asparagus? And was champagne all right with it? Whisky wasn’t all right with oysters. There was a third instalment keeping hot but she couldn’t face it or let anyone else face it. She sprang up saying, ‘Marvellous, marvellous, and we’ve finished the very last stick. Now for the strawberries.’

  Strawberries had the great charm of not being asparagus. Robert decided they should go into his novel. The very words, ‘strawberries and cream’ had a fairy-tale charm. He saw them in startling contrast to the dark, gothic mass of his general idea. Yes, strawberries, certainly – perhaps wild ones, gathered at dawn by a heroine rather like Sarah but with a very different voice.

  Not that Sarah’s voice had been heard much during the meal. She had concentrated on eating. With the exception of Baggy, who had enjoyed watching everyone else eating but eaten little himself, she was the only person who retained her enthusiasm for asparagus. She said she could eat it every day for a year.

  Well, she could eat it every day for a week, May decided. She should be persuaded to take the twelve still-uncooked bundles back to the Hall. No ugly head of asparagus should be raised again at the Dower House for a very long time.

  Later in the afternoon Fran went to Baggy’s room to tell him what a great success the feast had been. She found him sitting in his armchair doing nothing, except smiling gently.

  She hoped he was basking.

  ‘Oh, Baggy, everything was splendid,’ she assured him.

  ‘Truly, Fran? Did you all get enough?’

  ‘We did indeed, and for the first time in our lives.’

  But with asparagus, she reflected, as with several of life’s especial pleasures, enough could be synonymous with too much.

  12

  At supper that evening (always ‘supper’ on Sundays, though otherwise indistinguishable from the usual ‘dinner’) Hugh remarked, ‘Well, eat, drink and be merry – for tomorrow Aunt Mildred comes.’

  Fran said, ‘Now, listen, Hugh – in fact, listen everyone! It just isn’t fair to expect the worst of Mildred and, what’s more, it brings out the worst. What’s so wrong with her, anyway? What does she do? She’s a perfectly harmless old lady.’

  ‘She’s not and you know it,’ said May. ‘She rarely comes for so much as a meal without upsetting someone. How we’re all going to stand her for a fortnight I simply don’t know.’

  Neither did Fran but she said firmly, ‘Nonsense, darling. Anyway, let’s all forget past irritations and do our best to be nice to her. Baggy, you’ll help me, won’t you?’

  Mildred had only been invited to Rosehaven when June had felt it absolutely necessary, but Baggy knew her well enough to consider her annoying and what he would have described as ‘very fancy’. Still, she was Fran’s sister so there ought to be some good in her. Every day
he became more devoted to Fran. ‘Of course I’ll be nice to her,’ he said kindly.

  ‘Sweet of you, Baggy.’ Not that Mildred cared much for elderly men; she often said she felt an affinity with the young. Remembering this, Fran appealed to Hugh again, ‘I wonder if you realise how fond of you she is.’

  ‘I don’t and I’d rather not,’ said Hugh, then added a trifle impatiently, ‘Oh, don’t worry, Fran. I shall only be seeing her at the weekends. I expect I can keep the peace – if only she’ll lay off calling me “Little St Hugh” and telling me my true vocation is the church.’

  ‘It’s meant as a compliment. She admires you enormously.’ This was untrue. Mildred had recently said to Fran, ‘Naturally I’m fond of Hugh but you must admit he’s a bit goody-goody. So’s his father. Of course they’re both handsome but give me George every time.’ If only George would be nice to Mildred, how Mildred would blossom. Fran, turning to him, said, ‘Well, I know I can count on you, George. Even to Mildred you’re always the perfect host.’

  George had been wondering if, during the next fortnight, he could find it necessary to spend quite a few nights in London. But he might be a nuisance to Hugh and Corinna at the flat. Also, May might suspect he was up to something. (God knew he wasn’t; astonishing how little temptation he’d had to face recently.) And he was still very much enjoying life at the Dower House. He felt capable of taking Mildred in his stride and he would come home every night positively exuding bonhomie.

  ‘Tell me something she likes,’ he said to Fran. ‘Something I can bring home as a treat.’

  ‘Liqueur chocolates – anyway, she used to.’ Mildred was apt to be faithless to the things she liked, when someone took the trouble to buy them for her. But she’d like anything George gave her.

  Robert said, ‘June and I were discussing her last night, more or less burnishing our armour. It’s absurd to pretend that she does anything really awful – well, not often. It’s just that she’s a past-mistress at the art of deflation. Almost everything she says takes the stuffing out of one, if only a little. And the effect’s cumulative. I wonder why she does it.’