Berry Scene (32 page)

April 16th.

Here we are at Bussaco, where Arthur stayed. I wish I was at Lisbon, where I reside. I mean, why rush about? Lisbon and its environs are quite good enough for me. Talk about blue-based baboons. Too many villages on these roads. And dogs. You know. Beat the car, bite the wheel and bark. How Jonah saves their lives, I’ve no idea. Of course they mean no wrong, but it shortens your life. Of his wisdom Rufus declared that, if we’re to visit Oporto, we’d better do so from here. And Coimbra and Vizeu. The way to see this country is to have a private train. The roads leave much to be desired, and if you sleep outside Lisbon, you’ve got to watch your step. This evening we staggered about the battlefield. I did in a pair of shoes and Daphne fell down. But it all began to come back. Happily able to clear up a puzzling point. Massena knew his onions, so why attack the ridge when he might have turned Arthur’s flank? You can say his maps were wrong, but that’s no answer, because they always were. Fancy a French map of Portugal. Give me strength. ‘I’m inclined to agree,’ says Jonah. ‘What do you know?’ Well, Arthur rode up to me, with his field-glass under his arm. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘there’s Massena…in the carriage with yellow wheels. Now it’s most important that he shouldn’t get ideas. You’ve got a carrying voice and you never repeat yourself.’ A nod’s as good as a wink. By the time my version of his parentage had been translated to Massena, two interpreters were under arrest and the Marshal could think of nothing but getting me down. So he went for the ridge, and Arthur hit him for six. As we got back to the hotel, a car drives up with a bang, and out gets Pony Skene. One of the old school, Pony – without the tie. Up at Magdalen together, a year or two back. Pony was always important, but now he’s a very big noise. The seats of the mighty are in his dining-room. But he’d time to thank his chauffeur, before he came up to put his arms round my neck. Diplomats be damned: it’s blokes like Pony Skene that make the world go round. He knows why we’re here; so he’s not going to ask us out: but he thinks, when we visit Oporto, we might see over his lodge. And very nice, too.

April 18th.

Yesterday Coimbra, today Vizeu. Sleepy, little, old town – Vizeu. I liked it well. We left the car in a garage and took to our feet. The greatest courtesy shown us on every side. For all that, I shan’t be the same. I mean, the lane was steep, about one in four, and there was a girl walking up, with a bath on her head. A full-size, porcelain-lined bath. And nobody took any notice, except to get out of the way. And it takes two damned strong men to
move
such a thing: and it took six men at White Ladies to get one up the stairs, And there was this girl, with one of the things on her head. And for all she seemed to care, it might have been a box of cigars. You know, if Jill hadn’t been with me, I should have suppressed the vision. As it was, I never felt more like a milk and soda in all my life. I suppose they’re like that in Vizeu: but I hadn’t the slightest desire to meet a child with a steam-roller under his arm. So we repaired to a café and split a bottle of beer. Suddenly Jill gives a squeal – one of her old-time squeals: and it did my heart good. ‘What d’you know, sweetheart?’ I said – and then I saw. You know, that town’s not safe. A tumbril was coming towards us, drawn by a mule. And, as I live, the mule was completely clothed. Two pairs of trousers, a coat and a hell of a hat. But
trousers
. Two pairs, of the best sail-cloth… I suppose the general idea was to thwart the flies. But what about heart failure? I’ll say I had a double brandy. I mean, you never know. Supposing Puss-in-Spats had rolled up and asked for a light. Which reminds me of that dear old lay—

A cat went out for a walk one day,

With his hat on the back of his head:

And everyone said,

Oh, look at that cat,

He shouldn’t do that,

His head’s too fat

And his face too flat,

For a hat on the back of his head, his head,

For a hat on the back of his head.

You know, I think I shall have to do the Alphabet.

A’s for Aunt Agatha

All over ants:

They ran up her legs

And into her – vest:

(I thought it was best

To say ‘into her vest’:)

They gave her no rest:

But this was because

She sat down on their nest.

Well, here we go. Oporto tomorrow.

April 19th.

I forgot to say that Pony told us how to deal with the dogs. ‘Believe it or not,’ he said, ‘they only want to know where you’re going. If you’re going to Lisbon, shout “Lisbon”, and they’ll clear out.’ You know, it’s perfectly true. Yesterday afternoon, one started in, so we all of us yelled ‘Vizeu’, and off he went, with his tail right over his back. I tell you, it never fails. There’s nothing the matter with Oporto. How could there be? First we followed Arthur, saw where he crossed the Douro and put the wind up Soult. What a man. I’ll say be deserved to eat Soult’s dinner that night. Wasn’t it Soult who turned his back on him at the Louvre? And HM apologized. And Arthur said, ‘That’s all right, Sire. I’m used to that.’ But, what a beauty. After lunch we repaired to the lodge. There we were made free of the mystery of how port is done. I can think of many worse jobs. Strolling above the vats, you move in an aroma which has Coty beat to nothing. Clarence was right. Butt of malmsey or pipe of port – that is the perfect way to cross the Styx. And before we went, we each had a glass of nectar. And then we went shopping – and damned near bought the town. As we were going home, ‘Whatever’s that parcel?’ said Daphne. ‘Silk stockings,’ said I. ‘It’s all right. I wrote the cheque.’ ‘But I said six pairs,’ she said. ‘Six dozen,’ I said. ‘I heard you.’ ‘Six dozen pairs,’ she screams. ‘I must have been out of my mind.’ ‘No,’ said I. ‘Just nicely. I give you my word, you looked like the Queen of Sheba. Oporto was your wash-pot this afternoon.’ And Jill bought four Persian rugs and slept all the way back. Beginning to see why Pony’s so popular.

April 20th.

Arthur used to say there was only one road in Portugal – that from Lisbon to Pombal. Things have improved since then, but I’ll lay that much of that stretch has never been touched. Batalha has a fine abbey, but Rolica and Vimeiro are written in letters of gold in the book of Fate. We ate our lunch by Vimiera – cold mutton, of course – where Arthur pushed Junot’s face through the back of his head. Yet, he’d only three hundred horse and no transport at all. What a man. Home to tea, thank God. After a bath and a change, felt up to getting my hair trimmed. Taxi a congenital idiot, so couldn’t find Rufus’ place. Entered another which didn’t look too bad. I might have known. Portuguese only spoken – by two dozen butchers in white. And an armoury of clippers – to make the blood run cold. My particular torturer weighed about eighteen stone, and when I waved the clippers away, he fetched a razor with which to shave my neck. When I wouldn’t have that, he proposed to cut my eyebrows, while some hanger-on was barking to clean my shoes. In the end they fetched a bloke from over the way. ‘Yes, sir?’ he says in French. ‘Praise God,’ I said. ‘Will you kindly tell this artist to put all those clippers away? If he can’t use a comb and some scissors, I’ll go elsewhere. And if that wallah touches my shoes, I’ll call the police.’ Well, then they came to heel… A blessed evening at home, in front of a slow wood fire, suddenly blown to bits by Jonah’s impious suggestion that we should pay a visit to Spain. Oh, I can’t bear it. Only just back from a most exacting tour, and we’re to leave this haven and fare far worse. ‘Stay at Ciudad Rodrigo.’ Yes, that’s a good one. Rotten fish to eat, and bugs all over the place. Fifteenth-century sanitation – very interesting. But would they have it? No. What was good enough for Arthur was good enough for them. But how romantic. Lot of slobbering pantaloons, if you ask me. I mean, does the body count, or does it? So I pulled out the diapason. ‘Look here,’ I said. ‘Nothing has so ministered to my mind as treading in Arthur’s foot-prints and surveying the ground he hallowed by smearing Boney’s marshals, one by one. But up to now, it’s been in comparative comfort that we have done our stuff. We’ve had some trying days, but at least we’ve got in to a bath and a meal that you could consider without feeling physically sick. This latest obscenity ignores these valuable truths. First, we shall have a perfectly poisonous drive: then we shall cross the frontier – an operation which, if I know anything of Spain, will be attended by every circumstance of inconvenience, delay, insult and extortion: finally, we shall descend at a fourth-rate Spanish
bodega
– or whatever they call their bestial hostelries. Our rooms will be verminous; the sight and smell of the food will raise the gorge; the offices will be dangerous to health. If you must subdue the flesh, let’s do a museum a day, or suck
bacalhao
before breakfast, or–’ ‘You filthy brute,’ says Daphne, for that got under her skin. I pressed my advantage home. ‘My love,’ said I, ‘if you sleep at Ciudad Rodrigo. before you’re through you’ll sigh for a hunk of bad cod. And you don’t want a smother of warts all over your countenance.’ ‘Warts?’ screams Jill. ‘Warts,’ said I. ‘Evil exhalations corrupt good matter. When I was Oliver Cromwell–’ And there goes the telephone. Rufus. ‘Look here, Red Spenser,’ says I, ‘can we stay at Ciudad Rodrigo?’ ‘It has been done,’ says he, ‘but you won’t be the same.’ ‘Hold on,’ says I. ‘Here’s Daphne.’ After a minute or so, she asked the Spensers to lunch and put the receiver back. ‘Can I have some brandy?’ she said. ‘I don’t feel well. And you can have the game. We’re staying in Portugal.’

April 29th.

I like Lisbon more and more. A taxi down to Rossio, and then a stroll. The patterned pavements are delightful. A coarse mosaic of marble, black and white. These things matter. You can say they don’t, but they do. Beauty always counts. The proportions of Black Horse Square and the Avenida are really handsome. More mail. Touching letter from a bloke we let down lightly two months ago.
Honoured Sir, Come out last week and done wot you said. No chance of a job not on your life but I sticks around and makes myself useful and after two days the farmer sends for me. Did you strap this mare he says. That’s right, sir, I says civil. Good enough he says carry on. I’ll start you at twenty-five bob. Easy as that. Had to let you know sir because its all thanks to you. Yours very respectfully, George Bailiwick.
What can one say?
Dear George, What could be better? Well, fifty bob, I suppose. But you’ll soon be getting that. The great thing is, it’s come off. Good luck and God bless. Yours sincerely, BP.
A very suspicious twinge in my left knee. Gorblime. It can’t be the port. Not tawny. Oh, I can’t bear it. And Pony drinks a bottle a day. Great argument about
The Times
jigsaw. I mean crossword. Provost of Eton said to do it while he boils his egg. All I can say is he must like his eggs damned hard. Trying to pull a fast one, if you ask me. Why, the anagram’s enough to see most people through lunch. And listen to this. Six down–’ Even he had something to eat off.’ And Four across–’ I should have said it was aching, but they declined.’ You know, that’s an obscene libel. I think I’ll set one one day. Five across – ‘Tell auntie.’

May 7th.

To Cintra by Estoril. Coast road. Reached the Spensers’ cottage alive. Lunch quite admirable. Never ate better sardines. Understand you ought to keep them for five years in box. Later we ventured to prove a private road. Unpardonable, of course: but this one has always beckoned, and we shall soon be gone. Forest at first, and then a most lovely prospect of land and sea. Stopped and got out. Surroundings ideal for meditation. The others strolled on. Woke to find an old fellow sitting beside me, smoking a cigarette, with his hat tipped over his eyes. I pulled myself together and did what I could in French. When I was through, ‘Let us speak English,’ he said. ‘My grandmother was English, but I am Portuguese. My name is—, and you have done me the honour to make me your host.’ We would pick a dukedom to gate-crash. ‘You’re very forgiving,’ I said, and gave him my name. ‘I’m afraid there are others,’ I added. ‘They’re trespassing, too.’ ‘Not trespassing,’ says the Duke. ‘No English can trespass here. I will tell you why. More than once, your great Duke of Wellington stayed here, as my great-grandfather’s guest. The old house has gone, so I cannot show you his rooms; but you shall have tea on the terrace on which he used to sit. And you can never trespass where that great gentleman passed.’ Would you believe it? And there the others came up. Talk about the Gathering of the Fans… Before five minutes were gone, we were changing hats. What an afternoon. Tea on a lovely terrace, commanding the glorious prospect that Arthur viewed. And the old boy full of the dope that his grandfather handed down. The latter was only ten, when Arthur was here: and Arthur played football with him, down on the lawn below. He remembered Hill very well, and some of the Staff. Years later he stayed at Strathfieldsaye. And there was the musical box which Arthur had sent out from England and had given to him for Christmas, 1810. As good as ever today, it played for us. It was very moving to hear it – as Arthur himself had heard it, a long time ago. Our host’s great-grandmother was always concerned, because Arthur would eat so little. But he would only laugh and say most people ate too much. That his officers worshipped him was always clear. Before we left, the old fellow gave us a map. It was a very old map, but Arthur had always said it was very good. The centre of Portugal. And on it Arthur had market the Lines of Torres Vedras with his own hand. This was too precious a possession for us to accept. But our host would have it so. ‘That you may remember,’ he said, ‘this afternoon.’ ‘How could we forget it?’ says Daphne. ‘How could we ever forget such kindness as yours?’ The old fellow bowed. ‘You have made me very happy. Please make me happier still.’ And so it will hang at White Ladies, framed in gilt.

May 11th.

Our last day. Lettice and Rufus dined with us last night. Entirely thanks to them, we have been able to relax. Exactly what we needed. All miles better, and – God be praised – Jill is herself again. Pity Adèle couldn’t come: though she might have got bored with Arthur, who can’t mean the same to her. Packing. Daphne swears she’s not going to declare her stockings. There’s the woman for you. Actually proposing to smuggle half a gross. Well, a gross, really. I mean it’s yelling for trouble. Anything small, of course. But silk in bulk, no thank you. Besides, I don’t think it’s right. Not a risk like that. A last stroll down the Avenida and round about. A pair of earrings for Daphne, and a little fob watch for Jill. They can wear them.
Au revoir
, Lisbon. You’ve done us proud.