‘What’s Country Life?’
‘It’s a paper your Aunt Gloria takes in.’
‘I know,’ said Wendy in tones of superiority, and added in a stage whisper: ‘Christopher Robin can’t read, you know, so of course papers aren’t very interesting to him.’
‘Pig,’ said Christopher Robin. ‘I can read. Anyway, you –’
Paul had been treated to arguments of this kind before, and hastily said: ‘I’ll tell you the story then, if you’ll be quiet. A man was walking across a farmyard –’
‘A farmer?’ asked Wendy, ‘or a labourer?’
‘If you interrupt I shan’t go on. The man who wrote this story to Country Life – I don’t know who he may have been – was walking across a farmyard when he saw two rats running along in front of him. He threw a stick which he had in his hand at the first rat and killed it dead. To his great surprise the second rat, instead of running away, stood quite still as though it were waiting for something. The man thought this was so odd that he went over to look at it, and when he got quite near he saw that it was stone blind and had a straw in its mouth. The rat he had killed had been leading it along by the straw, you see, and the poor blind one thought it had stopped to have a drink or something, I suppose, and was just patiently waiting there for it to go on.’
‘Well?’ said Wendy after a pause.
‘That’s the end of the story.’
‘But what did the man do with the blind rat?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say in Country Life.’
‘I should have kept it for a pet,’ said Christopher Robin, ‘and led it about on a straw.’
‘I should love a dear little blind rat,’ said Wendy, and added in a contemplative voice: ‘I sometimes wish I were blind you know, so that I needn’t see my tooth water after I’ve spat it.’
‘I know what,’ said Christopher Robin, ‘let’s pretend you’re a blind rat, Wendy. Shut your eyes, you see, and put this straw in your mouth, and I’ll put the other end of it in mine, and I’ll lead you along by it.’
That evening Lady Brenda said to Paul: ‘I think it is so kind of you to take my wee things out for walks (I’m afraid they must bore you rather, don’t they?) but – please don’t mind me saying this – don’t you think that game you taught them with the straw is perhaps just the least little bit unhygienic? Of course if the straw could be sterilized I wouldn’t mind, but you see one can’t be certain where it came from, and I am so frightened always of T.B. So I’ve strictly forbidden them to play it any more, I hope you won’t be angry; it’s too sweet of you to bother with them,’ and with a vague smile she drifted away.
Héloïse Potts took Squibby Almanack for a ride. She did this mainly in order to annoy Bobby, because she knew that she would be fearfully bored by Squibby before the day was over. They went, in the duchess’s black Rolls-Royce, to visit Bunch Tarradale, whose ancestral home, Cracklesford Castle, was some thirty miles away, in Warwickshire.
Bunch was more than pleased to see them, and quickly led off Squibby to the downstairs lavatory so that they could have a good gossip.
‘Have you heard from Biggy?’ said Bunch, with more than a hint of malice in his voice. ‘He’s in love again.’
‘Not again! Who is it this time?’
‘A girl called Susan Alveston. However, she’s refused him, which is all to the good. Very ugly and stupid I hear she is, and only sixteen.’
‘Biggy always likes them young though, doesn’t he? How d’you know she’s ugly and stupid?’
‘He said so in his letter. He said “You might not call her strictly beautiful, but she has a most fascinating and expressive little face.” That means she must be ugly, doesn’t it, and all girls of sixteen are stupid. All the ones I’ve met are, anyhow. Besides, she must be, to refuse Biggy.’
‘You seem to think that girls only have one idea in their heads, and that is to marry a lord as soon as they can.’
‘Well, isn’t that true?’
‘I have my ideals,’ said Squibby.
‘And have you heard from Maydew?’ continued Bunch. ‘I had a picture postcard saying everything had turned out very satisfactorily.’
‘So did I. Balham is evidently a success. What a sensible man Maydew is, to be sure, so untrammelled by feeling. It must be delightful to have a nature of that sort.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Anyhow, I am very glad about poor old Biggy, only I do feel that he should be more careful. One of these days he will be accepted, and how he would resent that.’
‘So should we all. Do you think that perhaps my mother has now been subjected to the maddening prattle of your first cousin for long enough? Shall we relieve her?’
‘Just a minute. I knew there was something else I wanted to ask you. What is all this nonsense about a quintet society?’
‘Ah! Biggy has written to you about that, too, has he? Mind you, I think it’s quite a good idea in some ways, only I’m afraid it’s bound to be a failure if Biggy has anything to do with it. Still, I suppose one will have to join?’
‘I suppose so. One must support the poor old boy, though, frankly, it seems rather a waste of his time and our money. It’s so like Biggy, isn’t it? He always starts these wildly unpractical schemes. As though there were not enough good concerts as it is, besides, I hate listening to music in drawing-rooms. One’s always catching people’s eyes.’
‘He tells me we shall be able to take off our boots.’
‘I always do in any case.’
‘All the same, I dare say there is something to be said for it, you know,’ muttered Squibby grudgingly as they went upstairs. Fond as they were of each other, these friends had a sort of underlying bitterness in their characters which made it impossible for them not to indulge sometimes in a little harmless venom; like certain brothers and sisters, they always pretended to be sceptical of any venture embarked upon by the others.
On the way home Miss Héloïse Potts took advantage of the darkness and the undoubted cold to snuggle very close to poor Squibby, who, overwhelmed by her proximity and by the kisses which soon fell upon his lips, responded in no uncertain manner and presently begged of her to marry him.
‘No thanks, darling,’ said Héloïse. ‘I’m not old enough to marry yet. But when I am grown up I’m going to be either a duchess like Mummy or a tart like Amabelle. Nothing in between for me. Only,’ she added jauntily, ‘there are rather few eligible dukes about so it almost looks as though –’
14
Darling Evelyn,
How sweet, but oh, how very naughty of you to send me such lovely links, at least I s’pose it was you who sent them, wasn’t it? Cartier very stupidly forgot to put in a card, but I don’t know anybody else who would be likely to do such a divine thing. I just can’t tell you how much I dote on them. I look at them all day and think what an angel you are to give me a present like that, although I do feel rather badly about not having sent you even a Christmas card! However, I haven’t forgotten the date of your birthday, Evelyn, dear. I have had a gorgeous Christmas. I do hope you have, too. Amabelle, who has taken a house down here, gave me an evening watch (platinum with diamonds round the edge) and Auntie Loudie St Neots a pair of gold hair-brushes, rather chi-chi, but very attractive all the same, and I had altogether £60 in tips. But far, far the best of all my presents do I like your exquisite links. See you very soon, I hope. I may be in London for a few days towards the end of the holidays, in which case we might lunch or something? Anyway, mind you come trailing over to Eton some time next term, won’t you?
Many more thanks for the lovely surprise.
With love from
Bobby.
Bobby folded up this letter, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and laid it in a pile of about six others, all couched in exactly identical terms.
‘Think of some more people for me to write to,’ he said to Paul, who was deeply engrossed in th
e journal.
‘What sort of people?’ asked Paul vaguely.
‘The sort that might be taken in by a letter like this and stump up with something fairly reasonable.’ He read Paul the letter.
‘That’s rather a good idea, isn’t it?’ said Paul. ‘I wish I was brazen enough to do that sort of thing.’
‘But I can’t think of anybody else. You see, it must be someone rich, who enjoys giving presents. I won’t risk taking all this trouble just to get a New Year’s card back.’
‘Nobody seems to enjoy giving me presents,’ said Paul gloomily; ‘and if they do their mothers go and burn the thing in the stoke-hole. It is hard – The Sexual Life of Savages in Northern Melanesia is a book I had always wanted most particularly too.’
‘You can have Tally Ho! Songs of Horse and Hound, old boy. Here it is if you’d like it. I’m still wondering how they could have got mixed up. Do you think darling Héloïse might have had something to do with it?’
‘I expect that’s exactly what did happen. Thank heaven the little chatterbox isn’t here any more. She gets on my nerves with her sudden shrieks and all that egi-egi.’
It was New Year’s Day, and the entire house party had gone away that morning except for Lord Lewes, who remained alone and palely loitering, with the intention of very shortly laying his coronet, estates and person at the feet of his cousin, Philadelphia.
‘She may be a little chatterbox,’ said Bobby sourly, ‘but nobody can deny that she is divinely attractive.’
‘Indeed, I can.’
‘And, as a matter of fact, I may quite likely marry her in years’ and years’ time,’ went on Bobby, taking no notice of Paul. ‘We are engaged now, if you want to know, secretly, of course.’
‘My dear, she’ll be married and have children before you’re out of the cradle.’
‘Oh, I don’t expect to be her first husband, naturally. And you know, on second thoughts, I’m not at all sure I wouldn’t rather marry Aunt Loudie. She’s even more my cup of tea in many ways, and now it’s allowed by law I shall consider it very seriously indeed.’
‘Your mother told me most distinctly that aunts were not allowed. Only uncles, she said.’
‘Oh, Mother! She just makes up the rules as she goes along. I dare say she’s guessed my guilty passion for Aunt Loudie and thinks she can throw cold water on it from the start. If one’s allowed it’s quite obvious that the other would be too. I wonder where Delphie is, by the way?’
‘I think I saw her go out with Michael – for a walk, I suppose.’
‘That’s all to the good. Splendid. I’m very pleased about that.’
‘Oh, you are, are you? May one ask why?’
‘Well, naturally, I’m delighted when I see Delphie going about with Michael. I’m arranging for her to marry him, you know.’
‘Oh, indeed! I thought he was supposed to be in love with Amabelle?’
‘Love,’ said Bobby pompously, ‘has little or nothing to do with a matrimonial alliance. We Bobbins never marry, we contract alliances, and all that is necessary for a successful alliance is mutual respect. Now Michael’s a sentimental old thing, and he likes to imagine that his heart is broken irreparably; it gives him a certain kick, I suppose. But that needn’t prevent him from wanting to marry and settle down with a family of his own. Naturally he’s not in love with Delphie, I don’t see, personally, how one could be, but she would make him an ideal wife, healthy, well-born, properly educated for that sort of position, and so on. Just the very thing he ought to be looking for.’
‘Oh, damn you,’ said Paul.
‘Now what’s the matter?’
‘Well, you see, I happen to be in love with her myself.’
‘Oh, no! Are you honestly? How too enthralling this is. I wish I knew what you all see in her. But that’s perfect. I hope Michael has noticed; it ought to egg him on no end, oughtn’t it? A little rivalry and so forth. I must drop him a hint.’
‘Do be serious for one minute, Bobby.’
‘I am, dead serious.’
‘You see, I want to marry her myself.’
‘You want to marry her? Poor old boy, I’m afraid that’s absolutely no cop. Delphie must marry well whatever happens. We Bobbins always do. Not that I wouldn’t dote on you for a brother-in-law if things were just a tiny bit different, but – you see?’
‘You are a worldly little beast, Bobby,’ said Paul gloomily, but without rancour.
‘Yes, aren’t I? It does pay so much better to be. I’m awfully sorry if you’re feeling wretched about all this though, Paul dear, I am truly. I’m very fond of you, though you might not think it. Now I’ll put these letters to be posted (let’s hope they bring in a good fat return) and then we might ride over to Amabelle’s, shall we? It’s rather late, but we can always say that we stopped on the way back for a game of squash.’
At this moment Philadelphia wandered aimlessly into the room and asked what they were going to do.
‘Where’s Michael then?’ said Bobby.
‘I’ve no idea at all. Oh, yes, though, hasn’t he gone out with Mummy to look at that old barrow he’s going to excavate?’
‘Why didn’t you go with them?’
‘I thought it would be so boring.’
‘Barrows,’ said Bobby severely, ‘are very far from boring, let me tell you. I think you should try to take more interest in such things. You seem to live in a walking swoon.’
‘Anyway, what are you doing? Can’t I come too?’
‘We’re only going to ride over for some squash in Woodford.’
‘I’ll come and watch.’
‘All right, do,’ said Bobby, in exasperation. ‘Only I warn you there won’t be much to watch. It’s all a blind really, this squash and riding. We’re really going over to see Amabelle Fortescue at Mulberrie Farm.’
‘Oh, how thrilling. You know I heard Mother talking to Auntie Loudie about her, and afterwards she forbade me ever to go near Mulberrie Farm.’
‘Just you come along now then,’ said Paul. ‘Amabelle is longing to meet you, I know, and this is an excellent opportunity.’
On their way to the stables Bobby drew Paul aside and said: ‘Now we must try and make her pay attention to that barrow, community of interests is supposed to be an essential of married happiness.’
‘Damn you,’ said Paul again.
They found the party at Mulberrie Farm scattered about the drawing-room in attitudes of deathlike exhaustion.
‘We’re awfully tired and ill today, darlings,’ said Amabelle, ‘but it’s always lovely to see you, and I’m glad you’ve brought your sister at last, Bobby dear.’ She lay curled up on a Knole sofa and appeared almost unable to open her eyes. Her voice had become a mere whisper, her face a grey mask on which the rouge showed up with startling intensity. Her eyelashes, which she always painted navy blue, were now no darker than the shadows beneath them. Even the tactful Bobby was hardly able to conceal the shock that her appearance had given him. Sally and Jerome lay on other sofas, their ravaged faces half buried in pillows. Walter was nowhere to be seen.
‘What on earth is the matter with you all?’ said Bobby, after surveying this scene for some minutes in silence. ‘I know, you’ve been having a blind,’ he added accusingly.
Amabelle, who had dropped off to sleep again, woke with a start and said, ‘That’s it, however did you guess? We got to bed at half-past eight this morning, if you want to know, and we should be there still if it wasn’t for Sally’s perfectly idiotic theory that it makes one feel better to get up for tea. I can’t say I’ve noticed it. I couldn’t possibly feel more awful myself.’
‘What on earth have you been doing that could keep you up until eight-thirty; and why didn’t you invite me to the ball?’
‘We went to the New Year party at the Albert Hall. Sally suggested it at dinner last night, so we just bundled ourselves into fancy dress and popp
ed up to London in the car. Oh, how I wish we hadn’t, too!’
‘Oh, cads!’ said Bobby, and his eyes quite literally filled with tears. It was always a very real sorrow to him if he missed a party of any kind. He felt cross and resentful.
Amabelle saw this at once; she knew her little Bobby. ‘Darling, you can’t imagine how much we all longed for you to come,’ she said quickly, ‘but I simply couldn’t think of taking you, for your own sake, my sweet. You must remember that it never pays to risk quarrelling with one’s bread and butter, and you’ve got to keep in your mamma’s good books, especially if you’re not to be packed off to Sandhurst, eh? So don’t look quite so sad, precious.’
‘Oh, well, I see your point, I suppose. Actually, of course, it could have been worked quite safely; still, never mind, it’s all over now. Was it lovely?’
‘It was lovely,’ said Sally, sitting up with an obvious effort, and powdering her nose. ‘Simply grand. I got off with a miner from Lancashire, who had just absconded with the local slate club money and was having the time of his life in London on the proceeds. He was a great wit; he said the lady miners are minarets – he made that sort of joke. He was that sort of man, you see. Heavenly. And he said “I know where I’ve met you before, with Lady Alistair Grayson in her villa at Antibes,” and I said “You can’t have met me there because I don’t know the old trout,” and he said, “Oh, nor do I, of course. But I always read about her parties in the papers.” That is the sort of man he was – very O.K. I had a great romance with him. And who Walter got off with no one knows because he vanished half-way through the party, you see, and hasn’t come back yet. He must be having a gorgeous time.’
Sally rose uncertainly to her feet and staggered upstairs.
‘Poor darling Sally,’ said Amabelle. ‘I must say she does behave well on these occasions. I admire her for it a good deal. It’s really too naughty of Walter not to ring her up or something; he must know by now how much she always worries.’