A Tale of Two Families

  ‘She didn’t like the idea of it?’

  ‘Oh, she didn’t mind the idea. She just minded drinking out of the same cup as other people. Anyway, she wasn’t at all religious, really, though she thought religion was all right for what I’m afraid she called the lower orders.’

  ‘Does your grandfather ever come to church?’

  ‘No, indeed. He thinks religion is only all right for women.’

  ‘I wonder what will happen to it,’ said Hugh. ‘It seems to have very little relevance to the modern world. Still, I’m glad if it’s a help to you.’

  ‘A help? Religion?’ Sarah spoke as if the very idea was astonishing. ‘I go to church because it’s expected of me – besides, it’s a bit of a change. But it doesn’t help. I don’t see how it could.’

  ‘Well, neither do I,’ said Hugh. ‘But some people are able to lean on it.’

  ‘I find one jolly well has to lean on oneself.’

  Her tone was perfectly cheerful – perhaps she found her life less dreary than he imagined it to be. Wondering if she had resources he didn’t know of he asked if she read much. She said yes, she was fond of reading and often read aloud to her grandfather – ‘We’ve masses of old novels that were fashionable when he was young; some of them aren’t bad. And of course there’s Wodehouse; he’s jolly good. And some of our really old books are splendid; I suppose they’re classics, really. I like books about the eighteenth century that were written in the eighteenth century, if you know what I mean.’

  He said he did and was surprised to learn that she enjoyed Fielding and Smollett and Richardson – with whom his own acquaintance was a trifle sketchy. She added, ‘But of course I love new books when I can get hold of them. Your aunt’s lent me a lot. It must be lovely to buy books.’

  ‘Aunt May’s a great one for the latest bestsellers.’

  ‘They’re terribly inviting, aren’t they? So shining and nice to touch. I don’t always like what’s inside them but I love having the chance of them. You can’t think what a difference it’s made to me since you all arrived.’

  ‘Come and have lunch,’ said Hugh impulsively. ‘I know Aunt May would be delighted.’

  ‘If only I could! But I must lunch with grandfather. Do you mind if we hurry a bit?’

  It took him all his time to keep up with her. Her legs, he reckoned, were quite as long as his – though he thought he was a fraction taller than she was.

  They parted at the Dower House gate, Sarah heading for the Hall and Hugh heading for Corinna and Penny, who were on the lawn outside the Long Room.

  Corinna said gladly, ‘Oh, Hugh, she’s been splendid – and not one accident. Oh, dear! Well, it’s a compliment to you, really.’

  June and George came out of the lilac grove. June said, ‘We’re trying to hurry the lilac. It simply must be out when your grandmother gets here. She’s just telephoned from Paris to say she’ll be home the week after next.’

  ‘Oh, marvellous,’ said Hugh. It seemed unfair that he should have a delightful grandmother years younger than her age when Sarah was stuck with an antique grandfather quite possibly round the bend.

  May came to the French window and said, ‘Get ready for lunch, everyone. George, you’ll have to carve the ducks.’

  Hugh wished Sarah could have had a share of them.

  7

  Fran Graham was expected on the last day of her younger grandchildren’s Easter holiday. She had planned to arrive for lunch but, soon after breakfast, she telephoned to say she couldn’t come until the evening. She found she had to spend the day with her sister, Mildred.

  May said, ‘Oh darling! That means you’ll see hardly anything of Dickon and Prue. Why must you be with Aunt Mildred?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a bad case of hurt feelings. I haven’t seen her since I got back. And you still haven’t invited her. I think you’ll have to.’

  ‘No, Mother. We’re all enjoying ourselves. Oh, well, later on, perhaps. Can you get here for dinner?’

  ‘No, I’m sure I can’t. She really wants me to spend the night at her ghastly boarding house. Why, why, why does she have to live there? It isn’t as if she’s poor. I shall be lucky if I can tear myself away in time to get dinner on the train.’

  ‘You can get it on the 6.36 but…’

  ‘I know. I’ve already looked the trains up.’

  ‘But, darling, we’d be so glad to have dinner late for you.’

  ‘No,’ said Fran, in a tone which her daughters always accepted as final. ‘I’m not tying myself to any train and I don’t want to be met. You just expect me when you see me. And Prue and Dickon can stay up till the small hours and talk to me. Goodbye now.’

  Dickon, as his mother replaced the receiver, said, ‘I take it that old Mildew’s playing up.’

  ‘You really mustn’t call your great-aunt “Mildew”. One day you’ll do it to her face.’

  ‘Serve her right. You can’t deny the name suits her.’

  ‘I shouldn’t dream of denying it,’ said May. ‘If we do have her down here I expect she’ll blight the crops. Darling, go to the cottage – how much longer must they wait for a telephone? – and let them know about your grandmother, but make sure they all come up for both meals. I’ve got such masses of food. And if you see any lilac that’s actually out, bring some in for Fran’s room.’

  Dickon, strolling through the lilac grove, decided the lilac in bud was too young to survive if cut. And anyway, he didn’t want to bother. He wanted to go for a walk with Prue.

  He collected her, after telling of Fran’s postponed arrival.

  ‘Such a pity,’ said Prue, as they started out. ‘I was looking forward to having the afternoon with her. What a bore Mildew is.’

  ‘I wonder if something frightful happened to her in her youth – sort of blighted her and turned her into a blight.’

  ‘More likely something ought to have happened and didn’t. I asked Fran about that once and she was quite a bit snubbing.’

  ‘She’s often protective about Mildred,’ said Dickon. ‘Can you imagine them as girls together?’

  ‘There’s a photograph of them. Fran’s got an Eton crop and a short slinky dress – most sophisticated. Mildred’s all frilly and coy.’

  ‘She still is. Well, if they have her here, let’s hope it’s while we’re at school. Are you glad to be going back?’

  ‘Extremely glad,’ said Prue without hesitation.

  ‘Me, too. That’s odd, considering we both of us like our families. And no one could say they were bossy or possessive.’

  ‘Less than ever, down here. They seem completely occupied with their own affairs.’

  ‘I must say their interests seem a trifle narrow,’ said Dickon. ‘Mother cooks, Father eats what Mother cooks. Your father only thinks about writing his novel. What’s your mother’s particular line, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s ever had one. But I do notice she seems specially happy here. Perhaps it’s the relief of not having Baggy in the house.’

  ‘Was he a nuisance? I don’t seem to notice him much.’

  ‘I did. Oh, I’m fond of Baggy but I did sometimes wish he didn’t have to be with us every evening.’

  ‘Now he usually goes to his own room.’

  ‘I wonder if he feels he ought?’ said Prue thoughtfully. ‘Oh, gosh, I suddenly feel guilty. I haven’t done a thing about Baggy, all these holidays. I used to make an effort to be kind to him – well, talk to him, anyway.’

  ‘We could ask him to come for a walk with us this afternoon. But I think he takes a nap after lunch. Let’s go along to his room with him after dinner. I’ve barely been inside it.’

  ‘Me, neither. Yes, let’s do that. Shall we go into the woods?’

  ‘Not yet. I like them better higher up.’

  They skirted the Hall, on their way to the wooded slope beyond it. Dickon, after a glance towards the Palladian portico, said, ‘What do you make of Sarah Strange?’

  ‘Practically nothing
,’ said Prue. ‘Oh, I don’t dislike her; I just don’t get her. To me, she’s a beautiful blankness.’

  ‘I agree she’s not quite us. But she doesn’t strike me as altogether unintelligent. Hugh and Corinna get on with her.’

  ‘Well, Hugh gets on with everyone. And Corinna’s more used to Society girls than we are.’

  ‘Is Sarah a Society girl?’ said Dickon. ‘If so, she’s a Society girl without any Society, poor brute.’

  ‘I dare say. But that doesn’t stop her from being what she is. It’s a question of… well, social status. And don’t tell me that sort of thing’s out of date. Of course it is. But it still exists.’

  ‘Does Sarah make you feel inferior?’

  ‘Quite the reverse, I’m afraid,’ said Prue. They turned into the wood and walked in single file until they reached a clearing, on the crown of the hill, where they sat on the grass. From here they could look down on the roofs of the Hall, the Dower House and the cottage.

  ‘Father ought to see this view of the Hall,’ said Prue. ‘It might get him started on his Gothic novel. Rooftops are highly romantic.’

  ‘Not that rooftop. It appears to be a rubbish dump. Look at the iron bedsteads. And good God, there are seven enamel potties.’

  ‘Potties? What a coy word.’

  ‘Well, they were still called that when I last met one,’ said Dickon. ‘Who would put them on a roof?’

  ‘Servants – too lazy to carry them downstairs. I suppose they just chucked them out of the attics.’

  ‘Why bother? The attics can’t be needed now. They’ve only got some old woman and a man who looks after Sarah’s grandfather.’

  ‘That junk’s probably been there since the house was teeming with servants. Your potties may be valuable antiques. The cottage looks nice from here. You wouldn’t think a black house could look so cheerful.’

  ‘It’s all the white paint,’ said Dickon. ‘I rather fear the word for it is “cute”. There’s a lot of yellow moss on the Dower House roof. I suppose that’s all right?’

  ‘I expect old tiles can stand a lot of moss. It’s lichen, really. Looks lovely. Is your mother ever going to tackle the conservatory?’

  ‘She still hasn’t struck the right wicker furniture. Well, we’d better go back for the mammoth lunch that was planned for Fran. Your father and mother are just setting out.’

  ‘Accompanied by Penny,’ said Prudence. ‘Oh, look, she’s lying flat on her stomach waiting to be carried. I always thought puppies were lively.’

  ‘She is lively – as long as she’s not expected to walk. Come on. Mother may have something that’ll spoil.’

  Prue said, as they made their way down, ‘I never realised, until these holidays, just how marvellous Aunt May’s cooking is. I used to think she put on a special show whenever we Poor Clares came to a meal. But I know that the food’s at the same level all the time. I’m not sure I approve.’

  ‘Because of starving babies in India?’

  ‘Oh, not that – because the food wouldn’t go to the starving babies if we didn’t eat it. But taking a great interest in food is so elderly.’

  ‘I see what you mean. Still, I’m looking forward to my lunch.’

  ‘And don’t think I’m not,’ said Prue. ‘We’re late, let’s hurry.’

  They were distinctly aggrieved when they found that the first course had been cancelled. It was to have been asparagus, fabulously early.

  ‘I must save it for Mother tomorrow,’ said May.

  ‘While we’re on our way back to frugality,’ said Dickon.

  May looked worried. ‘You always say they feed you well at school.’

  ‘So they do, darling. But not on early asparagus.’

  May relented. ‘All right. I’ll telephone for some more.’

  After lunch Robert set off to see the chamber pots on the roof of the Hall, Baggy went to his room, and May told June her latest plans for the conservatory – ‘Though I still don’t feel sure I’ve got the right line on it.’ Prue said she must do her packing and Dickon said he would keep her company. His mother always did his packing. Prue considered her mother a very scatty packer and invariably declined her offer of help.

  Dickon, on their way through the lilac grove to the cottage, said, ‘Rather a pity we shan’t see the lilac at its best. I suppose Hugh and Corinna will be wandering here hand in hand.’

  ‘I doubt if they get as far as even holding hands. Yet one never for a moment doubts that they love each other. There’s a… a sort of aura of love about them.’

  Dickon said, after consideration, ‘I can’t make up my mind if an aura of love is pure woman’s magazine or a good description.’

  ‘Probably a bit of both.’

  They continued to talk while Prue packed, but about school personalities, not about their families; it was as if the packing provided a halfway house to school. Indeed, by the time they returned to the Dower House the Easter holiday was virtually over for them and they were on their way back.

  Still, they remembered their intention of being kind to their grandfather, and after dinner Dickon said, ‘May we come along for a last chat, Baggy?’ He half hoped that the phrase would leave Baggy with the impression that there had been earlier chats.

  After a momentary hesitation due to sheer surprise Baggy said, ‘By all means,’ and led the way.

  ‘What a fine room this is,’ said Prue, following her grandfather in. ‘It would make a good studio.’

  It would indeed, thought Dickon, as it had four north windows. By contrast with the sunset-flooded Long Room it was depressing. He would have expected his mother to give Baggy a sunny room – but women weren’t too bright about aspects. Best not draw attention to it, anyway.

  ‘How lovely the daffodils must have looked,’ said Prue, gazing out at the front lawn. At the moment they were looking anything but lovely as the faded heads and yellowing leaves were being left to die back. ‘You ought to have some flowers in here, Baggy. Tulips or something.’

  ‘So your Aunt May says. But I’ve never cared to have flowers in my bedroom. Your grandmother always said they must be put out at night.’

  ‘Like the cat,’ said Dickon and then regretted it. This cursed facetiousness!

  ‘We never put our cat out at night,’ said Baggy. ‘Your grandmother didn’t hold with it. Of course you don’t remember her.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Dickon. ‘And I remember the cat, too. It was a very fine cat.’ He added hastily, though he barely remembered his paternal grandmother, ‘And grandmother was a dear old lady.’

  Baggy never thought of his wife as an old lady. Of course she’d have been one by now. It would be interesting to move her on in his mind, try to see her as she’d be if she’d lived. He would think about it on his walk tomorrow. That wasn’t the kind of thing he let himself think of at night; too apt to keep one awake.

  Prue said, ‘You should have television in here.’

  ‘No need,’ said Baggy. ‘I can watch it in the Long Room if I want to. Not much of interest these days.’

  ‘You used to be so fond of it,’ said Prue, remembering many evenings when she had watched it with him – and the sound had had to be up louder than she could have wished.

  ‘Seems to have gone off. Your aunt and uncle seldom watch it and I can’t say I blame them.’

  Prue thought, he’d like it all right if he watched with someone. Perhaps she ought to give her father and mother a hint. But they did deserve a rest from Baggy, after years of insisting he should have his favourite programmes, most of which her father detested. She said brightly, ‘You’ve your own bathroom now, haven’t you? What luxury! I don’t think I’ve seen it.’

  Baggy opened the bathroom door.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely bathroom,’ said Prue. ‘Dickon, come and look at the nice white tiles. And so tidy! Very different from our old bathroom, Baggy.’

  ‘Still, that was a good bathroom,’ said Baggy defensively, feeling a wave of nostalgia for his nightl
y soak in it. He had always refrained from taking a morning bath, leaving the coast clear for the rest of the family. But after ten o’clock in the evening he felt he could take his time as all the bedrooms were fitted with wash-basins. Unfortunately they were not also fitted with loos, as Prue happened to be remembering. How often had she sat in her bedroom wondering how long, oh Lord, Baggy would go on soaking.

  ‘Oh, I remember that bathroom,’ said Dickon. ‘It was like a junk shop, what with all Prue’s old bath toys.’

  ‘I suppose Mother threw those out before she moved,’ said Prue, without regret.

  Baggy had regretted them and still did. Indeed, he had a sudden wild idea that a couple of plastic ducks might do something for this hygienic, repellent bathroom. Woolworth’s, perhaps? Absurd, of course. He must be in his second childhood.

  Prue continued, ‘Anyway, it must be marvellous to be able to have a bath any time one wants to. I’d probably have three a day.’

  Baggy, nowadays, took a brisk morning bath purely for the sake of cleanliness. He had only once tried a bath at night, when the white tiles under the brilliant strip-lighting had made him feel more in cold storage than in warm water.

  He led the way back to his bed-sitting-room and invited them to sit down, wondering what to say next. He was surprised that he should find it difficult to talk to his grandchildren, especially Prue, who had lived in the same house with him for so many years.

  Dickon, in a mature tone, said, ‘Well, I take it that the move to the country is paying good dividends.’

  ‘Yes, it seems to be giving pleasure,’ said Baggy.

  ‘I expect you’re enjoying Aunt May’s cooking,’ said Prue.

  ‘Yes, excellent, excellent.’ But Baggy sometimes thought it a mistake to have such good food at every meal; it eliminated the possibility of occasional treats. He added now, with both politeness and truth. ‘Your mother used to do some very tasty little suppers.’

  ‘Oh, she still does those. Nice things on toast.’

  Baggy and Prue enumerated these until they couldn’t think of any more. Dickon racked his brains for some topic that would really interest his grandfather, then realised he wouldn’t find one. The trouble was that the old man had drawn into himself. Why, exactly? He was obviously more comfortable than he had ever been with the Poor Clares. (And the Poor Clares, Dickon was glad to think, were more comfortable than they had ever been before. He often felt disturbed because his own family was richer than Prue’s.) Oh, no doubt all that was wrong with Baggy was just increasing old age.