Rule Britannia

  “It depends on your upbringing, doesn’t it?” replied Mr. Willis. “I was born and bred in a temperance society and I never had the taste for alcohol until I had turned twenty. I made up for it then, I can tell you, but it isn’t often I get the chance to imbibe these days.” He raised his glass to his hostess first, and then to Emma, sipped the contents like a client at a restaurant and nodded his head in satisfaction. “Delicious! What the experts call a full-bodied wine. I haven’t tasted anything like this since I worked my passage home from South Africa some years ago as steward in the first-class dining room. I like the fruity flavor,” he told them. “If you drank this twice a day for weeks on end you’d never need medicinal treatment.”

  The gong boomed, and Dottie entered the dining room bearing the tureen of beetroot soup.

  “I must drink this lady’s health as well,” remarked Mr. Willis. “I have not had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.”

  “Mrs. Dottrell, Mr. Willis,” said Mad, gesturing towards them both. “Mrs. Dottrell was in the theater with me for years.”

  “Indeed? Another actress? Truly, I feel flattered to find myself so surrounded by stars. The theatrical profession is the finest in the world, I’ve always said so. Were you in tragedy or in comedy, Mrs. Dottrell?”

  Dottie placed the tray on the sideboard. Her mouth was pursed tight.

  “I was in neither, though I saw plenty of both backstage. I happened to be Madam’s dresser for more than forty years. Luncheon is served.”

  Dottie stalked out of the dining room, her head high. Mr. Willis turned to his hostess, glass in hand.

  “Now that is an occupation that has never come my way,” he told her, “and more’s the pity. I’ve always had the wish to handle costumes.”

  “You may get your wish yet, Taffy,” Mad said, “especially if the Cultural-Get-Together movement has its way. We’ll see you in doublet and hose pouring wine for the American tourists.”

  “I’d see them in perdition first,” he replied, “unless I had the chance to doctor the wine. Which wouldn’t be likely, would it? Though if I had the drawing of the corks it could be managed.”

  They sat down to the fare of beetroot and cabbage, which, at their guest’s suggestion, could be made all the more palatable by mushing them together.

  “A spoonful of sherry too, if you have it,” he added, glancing at the sideboard. “Then it would make a dish fit for princes. Indeed, I feel myself a prince at this moment, sitting down here at the table with you both, and couldn’t wish for better company.”

  Which was all very well, Emma felt, but Mr. Willis was getting tipsier with every mouthful of Chambertin, and what with the beetroot soup well laced with sherry she couldn’t help feeling that his inside, unused to such a mixture since his days on board the liner returning from Cape Town, might soon begin to feel the strain. She was right. Dottie, her expression more disapproving than ever, had hardly appeared with the second course, apple crumble—a milk pudding would have been wiser, to give bulk—than Mr. Willis rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “You’ll excuse me, ladies, I’m sure,” he said, “but the penalty of increasing years is not only failing eyesight and the formation of wax in the ears, but a desire to pass water more frequently, if you will pardon the expression.”

  “I know it only too well,” Mad replied. “Emma, show Mr. Willis where.”

  Her granddaughter obliged, and the guest tottered out into the hall and beyond.

  “Dear Taffy,” said Mad, refilling his glass during a rather long absence, “how your grandfather would have adored him. I wonder if he plays the piano as well as sings. We might get him to perform directly. The only trouble is the piano is out of tune, it’s so long since it was touched, and Dottie told me some time ago the mice had got into the felt.”

  The absence became prolonged. “Darling,” said Mad, “I think you had better go and see what he’s doing.”

  “I can’t,” exclaimed Emma. “Honestly, Mad, I do agree with Dottie, you should never have asked him back to lunch. Supposing he’s collapsed?”

  “We shall have to send for Bevil,” replied her grandmother.

  Emma was silent. She wasn’t going to say that Dr. Summers would appear anyway. Far better that it should come as a surprise, though the doctor might not be too pleased if he found he was expected to attend to a bucolic beachcomber. It was Dottie who finally showed herself at the dining room door.

  “Your gentleman friend is lying on the cloakroom floor, Madam,” she said, her voice totally without expression.

  Emma and her grandmother went to inspect the scene. The worst had not happened, or if it had the effect had disappeared in the right place and with the plug pulled, but the effort had obviously proved too much for the guest, who was lying full-length on the floor, as Dottie had warned them, mouth open, snoring loudly, his spectacles askew on his nose. Mad knelt down, loosened the collar of his jersey and felt his pulse.

  “He’s all right,” she said. “We’ll put one of the coats under his head and let him sleep it off. What a shame, though. I did want to hear him sing.”

  Folly, who had pattered after Mad to the cloakroom, sniffed at the recumbent figure on the ground and backed, hackles rising.

  “Don’t be silly, Folly,” said Mad. “It’s only poor Taffy had a drop too much.”

  “And when he does wake up?” Emma asked. “Will he be in a fit state to walk back to the hut in the wood?”

  “He won’t have to,” Mad replied. “Jack Trembath is picking me up from the field in the Land Rover later, and Taffy can come with us to see the fun. That’s why I brought him back to lunch, so that I could explain it to him. He’ll enjoy himself all the more after a good sleep.”

  It rained steadily the whole afternoon, and the mist thickened. Mr. Willis continued to sleep on the cloakroom floor. Dr. Summers did not appear. Emma tried to call the surgery but the number was always engaged. The younger boys returned from school carrying yet more USUK flags and talking loudly of the holiday that was to take place the following day. Emma, who had rushed to their quarters to prevent them coming through to Mad as they usually did, steeled herself to the clamor of three separate voices.

  “We had history forever,” complained Andy. “Christopher Columbus, Pilgrim Fathers, George the Third, George Washington, Boston Tea Party—all piled one on top of the other, and I don’t know yet what the holiday we’re getting tomorrow is for.”

  “I do,” said Sam. “It’s for union. Once they didn’t want to be with us and now they do. And we are supposed to be pleased. And that Mrs. Hubbard came to talk to us again, and she said in America they always eat roast turkey on their Thanksgiving Day and I told her we only had it at Christmas.”

  “Well, I bet she doesn’t get it tomorrow,” said Andy, “unless they’ve had some flown in from America to the camp. The marines are giving a big lunch at the Sailor’s Rest and she’s going to be there, she told us. And I heard her say that they hadn’t liked to ask Madam because of her bad heart. Bad heart, I said? Cor, you ought to see the sacks of fir cones she brought in yesterday. Where’s Terry?”

  “He’s down at the farm, and Joe,” Emma answered.

  She looked around for Colin. Missing once more. Instinct led her to the cloakroom. Colin, Ben at his side, had his eye to the keyhole. He looked up as Emma tried to drag him away.

  “There’s a man in there lying on the floor,” he said excitedly. “Has someone killed him?”

  “Be quiet,” whispered Emma, “he’s not feeling very well. Stop it, Ben!”

  She was too late, however. Ben had burst open the cloakroom door, and the noise had the instant effect of rousing the visitor, who sat bolt upright like a jack-in-the-box released from captivity and stared about him with wild eyes.

  “It’s the beachcomber,” cried Colin, astonished. “Madam must have taken him prisoner and forgotten to lock him in. Hullo…” he addressed himself to the awakened guest, “are you feeling better? Would you like to
come and see Sam’s squirrel?”

  Mr. Willis fumbled for his spectacles and adjusted them, ran his fingers through his shock of white hair and rose slowly to his feet.

  “I feel like Rip Van Winkle,” he said. “How many years was it that he lay on the mountain top, and when he came down the whole world had changed? These boys were not present at the luncheon feast.”

  “No,” murmured Emma, “they’ve just come home from school. It’s nearly five o’clock.”

  Mr. Willis shook his head in disbelief. “I only came through to do the necessary, and I must have had a little turn and tumbled to the floor. How very distressing.”

  The two boys were staring at him, fascinated. The Welsh lilt was new to Colin’s ears, and from his intent expression Emma knew he was concentrating hard in order to memorize it.

  “Do you often fall asleep in the afternoon?” he asked.

  Mr. Willis smiled. “I have not done it these sixty years,” he replied, “not since the days I went to chapel Sundays and the drone of the minister’s voice sent me to dreamland.”

  “Now run along,” said Emma firmly. “Mr. Willis wants to tidy himself and then go home.” She turned, pushing the boys ahead of her, back to the kitchen. “Have your tea and don’t come through again,” she warned them.

  They were not listening. They had run through to the playroom to tell Andy and Sam of the strange happenings in the cloakroom. She returned to the hall and found Mr. Willis putting his boots on in the porch. The music room door was closed. He put his fingers to his lips.

  “The lady may be resting,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t disturb her for the world. Tell her from me her slightest wish is law. I burn to serve.”

  “Yes,” said Emma, “yes, of course.”

  “The fir cones here are for your fire, the sack is mine, but I bequeath it to her as a souvenir of a momentous visit, to be repeated, I trust, at some future time. The lunch was delicious.” Not one word of apology for the lapse in the middle. “Your grandmother did mention a possible encounter later at the farm,” Mr. Willis added before going down the steps, “its purpose not fully explained. I shall be there.”

  He bowed, turned, and plodded off down the garden path and through the gate.

  All was silent within the music room. Could it be that Mad had also fallen asleep? She generally left the door open so that Folly could wander in and out. Emma decided to wait until Mr. Willis had departed beyond recall, then she would make the tea, arouse her grandmother, and casually announce the fact that the visitor had left of his own accord with messages of gratitude to his hostess.

  Mad was not asleep. When Emma brought in the tea she found her sitting on the sofa with some half-dozen volumes of Shakespeare open beside her.

  “Darling,” she said, “I’ve been wading through all these. Which play is it where the man says, ‘I can call spirits from the vasty deep’?”

  Emma sighed and put down the tray. “Do you mean Owen Glendower?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t remember his name. Such a wonderful part for Taffy. I want him to read it to me when he wakes. Is it one of the Henry plays?”

  “Henry IV, Part One,” replied Emma. Mad was really very ignorant.

  “Ah…” Mad was fumbling through the pages, “wait a minute, here it is… ‘At my nativity the front of Heaven was full of fiery shapes, of burning Cressets; and at my birth the frame and huge foundation of the earth shak’d like a Coward…’ ” Her reproduction of Taffy’s voice was superb. “Em, do go and see if he is awake, he must have been lying there two hours, at least.”

  “Oh yes, he’s awake,” Emma told her. “What’s more, he’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Mad looked up at her, distressed.

  “He didn’t want to disturb you. He thanked you for the lunch.”

  Mad closed the volume of Shakespeare with a bang. “It’s too bad. I was looking forward to a lovely reading session before Operation Dung Cart. How was Taffy? Had he recovered?”

  “Perfectly. And he didn’t even apologize.”

  “Why should he? He couldn’t help himself.”

  Emma stood in front of her grandmother, her arms folded. “I think I ought to tell you,” she said, “that Operation Dung Cart, whatever that may be, is just not on. At any rate for you. I telephoned Bevil Summers this morning, and he’s coming out to see you. He’ll be here any time now.”

  Mad paused in the act of pouring out her tea. “Bevil can’t stop me,” she said.

  “Oh yes, he can.”

  Their roles were suddenly reversed. Emma was giving the orders. She would have to treat her grandmother in the same way as she treated Colin when he threatened disobedience. Mad was silent. She went on pouring the tea, but the ominous whistle sounded under her breath. Emma poured out her own tea, equally silent.

  Suddenly Mad shrugged her shoulders. “Oh well,” she said with a sigh, “you’re probably right. I might have got in the way, and I’d like to have a word with Bevil, as it happens. The fact is, I believe I strained myself yesterday carrying the sacks of fir cones. I’ve got a curious pain in my side.”

  “Oh, Mad…” Emma was all concern instantly. “Where? What sort of pain?”

  “Here,” frowned Mad, “rather low down, in the groin.” She pointed to herself, and when Emma touched her she winced.

  “Why on earth didn’t you say so before?” exclaimed Emma.

  “I didn’t want to make a fuss.”

  “Shall I tell Dottie?”

  “Certainly not. What could she do? I tell you what. Be an angel, and go through to the boys when you’ve finished tea, and keep them amused. I’ll lie quietly here and be on the spot for Bevil when he comes. Don’t worry, it’s not a bad pain, just rather odd and nagging.”

  Emma swallowed her tea, watching her grandmother from time to time. Her imagination leaped forward to disaster. Probings by the doctor, X-rays, hospital, an immediate operation… Nagging pains were always the most sinister, especially for old people. One day a person was perfectly well, or at any rate never complained, and then when it was too late, when you couldn’t do anything…

  Mad settled the cushion behind her head and reached out for Henry IV. Emma carried the tray back to the kitchen. She wouldn’t say anything to Dottie until after the doctor had been. Then they would know what to do. As soon as the boys had finished their tea she took them to the library, being careful to shut the door so that the sound of the television should not irritate Mad. She switched on the set, and settled in her grandmother’s chair just as a program about the Boston Tea party was starting. It proved to be a test of endurance, at least for Ben, who preferred to climb onto the window seat and rattle the shutters.

  “Be quiet,” said Colin, yawning, in the tone of a weary undergraduate before taking his Finals, “I can’t concentrate.”

  Ben ceased for a time, then started to rattle the shutters again.

  “What on earth does he want?” Emma asked, her nerves on edge.

  “I think he’s saying something about Madam,” replied Colin, without taking his eyes off the screen.

  Emma leaped to her feet, seized Ben from the window seat and bore him off, oddly enough without protest, to the hall. To her surprise, he made instantly for the porch and tried to wrestle with the latch.

  “Shuck…” he said, “shuck, fit!” and pointed to the garden beyond.

  “Will you stop it, Ben?” shouted Emma. “Madam is in the music room trying to rest.”

  Ben shook his head and stamped his feet, and suddenly Emma saw the headlights of Dr. Summers’s car circle the drive below the gate and stop. Ben must have heard the car. This was doubtless what he was trying to tell her.

  “All right,” she said, “stop talking for one moment, do.”

  She waited by the porch until the doctor emerged from the mist and drizzle.

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it before,” he said as she opened the door to him. “It’s been one hell of a day. Hullo, blackamoor.”

  “Oh,
I’m so glad you’ve come,” said Emma. “It really is urgent this time, though I didn’t know it when I rang you. She’s complaining of a pain in the groin. I don’t like the sound of it. Ben, will you leave the porch door alone?” Ben continued to point towards the garden, mouthing expletives. “Don’t take any notice of him, he likes to show off,” Emma explained, and she opened the door of the music room. The light was still on behind the sofa, but only Folly lay curled up asleep among the cushions.

  “She must have gone upstairs,” said Emma. “That means she’s feeling rotten. I don’t care how much she tries to hide it. I’ll give you a call.”

  She ran up the stairs two at a time and went through to her grandmother’s bedroom. The light was not on, nor had the bed been turned down. Could she have gone to the playroom or to Dottie? She ran downstairs again to the hall. Once again Ben tried to struggle with the porch door, gesticulating, his mouth working. Misgiving came to Emma. She remembered him doing the same thing when he stood on the window seat in the library. The window faced the lookout and the plowed field beyond the wall. She went to the cloakroom and switched on the light. Mad’s house shoes were standing neatly against the wall. Her boots, her oilskin and the peaked cap had gone. Oh no… She went back to the hall, her hands spread out in a gesture of resignation.

  “It’s no use,” she said. “She’s given us the slip. That whole story of a pain in the groin was a gigantic lie to put me off the scent. Now what in heaven’s name are we to do?”

  Bevil Summers raised his eyebrows. “Let’s leave heaven out of it, shall we?” he said. “Just try and explain exactly what you mean.”

  Emma barely heard him. “She even winced when I touched her, said she wanted to rest, asked me to keep the children quiet.” Emma paused in mid-statement. “It’s true, she did say she had a pain rather suddenly…”

  “Surely,” said the doctor, “you know your grandmother well enough by this time to be certain when she is making anything up or not? I do.” He sighed. He had had a heavy day, and he looked it. “Anyway,” he said, “do you mean she’s not in the house? She’s gone out, in this weather?”