Berry Scene (37 page)

It was while we were there that a letter from Berry arrived.

Brooks’ Club,

St James’s Street.

25th June, 1936.

Dear Brother,

Repugnant as I find it to address you, it is meet that I should share the surfeit of gall and wormwood, which now is mine. It will be bitter drinking, and the taste will linger in your mouth: but that is no more than you deserve and is, indeed, the condign portion of the slow belly. That I, who have done no wrong, should be penalized is of course monstrous: and when it is remembered that it was I who protested with vigour against a policy which, if followed, could only lead to our damnation – well, from where I sit, I can hear the stones crying out. But that is always the way. The wicked triumph, and the godly go down the drain. I mean, you find it in the Psalms.

Let me begin at the beginning, for I have an evening to spare and the notepaper here is free.

It will be within your knowledge that, during your absence from home – an event, I may say, which has afforded me the utmost relief – I had arranged to spend three nights in the metropolis. Amongst other charitable duties, I desired to see Forsyth and to quell the suspicions of Coutts. One of those nights has passed, for I came up yesterday. To my great inconvenience, the appointment I had this morning was altered to two o’clock, and I found myself at eleven with nothing to do. I, therefore, strolled forth, to see the sights of the town. I found them inspiriting. The volume of traffic is prodigious, and the tortoise outstrips the hare. Indeed, the condition of the thoroughfares provides a startling illustration of that inexpressibly sad proverb which records the inability of man to introduce a quart into a pint tot. Virgil Pardoner declares that whoso shall walk from Charing Cross to Knightsbridge will be there before the fool that engages a cab. I suspect that this statement is tinged with exaggeration: but I must confess that the dimensions of some of the traffic-blocks are preposterous. Still, everyone seemed in good fettle, every shop seemed busy, and I could snuff prosperity in the air. Believe me, I captured something which has eluded my senses for nearly twenty-two years. I had the definite feeling that the last of the lean-fleshed line had disappeared in the river from which they came, and that others, fat-fleshed and well-favoured, were, so to speak, surfacing and moving towards the bank. I stopped to look into the shops. Quality and quantity are rising – a steady rise this time, and prices are going down. They’re not what they were, of course: I doubt if they’ll ever be that: but you do get your money’s worth and the very deuce of a choice.

I was honouring Jermyn Street, when I encountered Fernandes – that energetic courier who kept our conscience in Lisbon a year ago. If he wasn’t ravished to see me, he covered it up very well; and a crowd was beginning to form, when I stopped a hackney-carriage and pushed him inside. Not knowing where else to direct him, I told the driver to make his way to the Mall, and the journey gave me nice time to hear Fernandes’ news. It had been his first visit to London, and he was to leave for Lisbon the following day: but he had seen more in ten days than I had in twenty years. When I could get in a word, I naturally asked if I could do anything for him, and it’s Grosvenor Square to a gum-boil you’ll never guess what he said. There was one sight he hadn’t seen: and he didn’t think he could see it, unless he could find a member, to take him in. But a friend of his had told him that he must on no account miss this remarkable thing. I thought of the Commons dining-room and the Pavilion at Lord’s. But I was quite wrong. What he was mad to see was the Army and Navy Stores. By then we had reached the Mall, so I let the taxi go, and we walked to Victoria Street.

I think it was the abundance that hit him under the chin. Every conceivable grocery, tinned and untinned. Sides of bacon and hams: cheese by the stone: tons of jams and biscuits and farinaceous foods: sauces, figs, foie gras – everything you can think of, and thirty kinds of each. And customers swarming, like ants, all over the place. Fernandes turned to me. ‘With all these purchasers, sir, even these great deposits will soon be gone.’ ‘My dear Senhor Fernandes,’ I said, ‘it is now a quarter past twelve. If I bought the lot here and now, and took it away, there would be another lot here before a quarter to one.’ It seemed simpler to put it that way. Then I led him into the ‘Drugs’. Crates of sponges and every known make of soap: bath-salts of every description: cosmetics and miles of tooth-paste: combs by the gross: everything in bulk that the most exacting toilet could ever require. So to the ‘China and Glass’. Shelf after shelf of services – dinner and tea: all shapes and sizes of glasses: fine crystal and kitchen ware: eggshell china and vases half an inch thick. The Tobacco Department shook him. Walls of cigars and tobacco and cigarettes: tens of thousands of pipes: tray after tray of smokers’ requisites. And all being sold – and, as they were sold, replaced. He could not get over the abundance – which we have taken for granted all our lives. Then I took him upstairs… By a lucky chance, I divined that he needed a suitcase. When he saw five hundred to choose from, he went and sat down. But I kept him up to the bit, and we finally settled on one that will last him for twenty years. He was lunching with friends at one, so we couldn’t complete our tour: but, as we made for a lift, I SAW OUR BACKGAMMON BOARD. I give you my word, it was exactly the same. Cork-bottomed, scarlet morocco, and self-contained. I examined it carefully. And then, with bulging eyes, I desired to be told the price. Four pounds, seven shillings and six pence… And we had paid nine guineas to Mrs Cigale.

How I got out of the place, I do not know. I vaguely remember saying goodbye to Fernandes and waving away his thanks. I’m not sure we didn’t embrace in Birdcage Walk. But I found myself back in the Club at five minutes past one. Yes, I had a still lemonade.

If you can beat it, I can’t. But there you are. Next time, perhaps, you will be guided by me. If, indeed, there is a next time, for no man, born of woman, can suffer a shock like that and be the same. As I have so often reminded you. most lepers would count themselves blessed to number a saint among their relatives. They would hang upon his lips and fight to wash his feet. They would mouth the hem of his garment and feel refreshed. Above all, his counsel would be received with veneration. But my inherent meekness has been the undoing of us all. For years I have accepted abuse, often obscene, in the hope that my gentle answers would wear indecency down: for years I have couched my protests in studiedly temperate terms, making every possible allowance for the verminous slabs of sewage you call your souls. And what is my latest reward? The privilege of being betrayed and despoiled by a vile and malignant harpy, wearing the habit and semblance of a lady born. And she knocked a guinea off, and let us have it for nine. But what self-sacrifice! What an oblation to lay on the altar of peace and goodwill! My God, the treachery of women! You know, they leave us standing, and that’s the truth. Which reminds me, they’re charging Fernandes’ suitcase to your account. I think it was seven pounds ten, but it may have been more. I felt that you would wish him to have the best.

Give their Graces my love. I was, I remember, the first to commend their engagement some years ago. Which accounts, of course, for the fact that their marriage has been a success. Indeed I sometimes feel that my translation is at hand. Should I become air-borne before your return, there must be no cheese-paring about the stained-glass window. I had better be portrayed in a hair shirt, with an orb in one hand and a beer-opener in the other. My legs should be crossed, to show that I have been ejected at closing-time.

Well, here we go,

Berry.

PS. Must Adèle sail so soon? ‘Are not Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel?’

I shall never know what took me to Fallow Hill Fair. But, just at that time – the late summer – my occupation was gone, and I did what my fancy dictated, because I was seeking distraction at any price. (Adèle had sent me a letter, to say she was not coming back.) And so I took Fitch and drove to Fallow Hill Fair.

For all the good that it did me, I might have stayed where I was, and, after strolling about for a quarter of an hour, I had just decided to make my way back to the car, when a lad of about seventeen came up to my side.

“Will you please to speak to my mother?”

“Who is your mother?” I said.

“Deborah Crane.”

“Oh, the fortune-teller,” I said. “And what does she want with me?”

“She knew you before I was born. Her name was not always Crane.”

“Very well,” I said. “Where is she?”

He led me behind a booth and lifted the flap of a tent; and there was the gypsy standing, with one of her hands to her breast.

I knew at once that I had seen her before. It was – yes, it was in the greenwood: and…

“That is right,” she said. “By Gamecock. I was Sam Lewis’ wife. I have seen you sometimes since then, though you have never seen me.”

“I remember,” I said. “I have good cause to remember. You did us a very good turn.”

“I know. You are kindly people. I am sorry to see you troubled; but you shall sleep to-night.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Come here and look into my eyes.”

I did as she said.

“Do you see the flecks of hazel upon the grey?”

“Yes, I see them,” I said.

“Think of them, when you would slumber, and I will see that you sleep.”

“You’re very good,” I said. “I will do as you say.”

She pointed to a chair, and I turned.

As I took my seat—

“So many come to me and, though they do not know it, go empty away. But that is not my fault. And others, whose lines are manifest, pass me by. And you were passing… And so I sent for you.”

“Are mine so clear?” I said.

“They are clear to me. Shall I tell them?”

“Yes, if you please.”

“I speak for the five,” said the gypsy. “I know but three, but I can see there are five. You are set together, as stones are set in a ring. I think there were seven, but two of the stones are gone.”

“That is true,” I said. “And what of the five?”

“You have suffered two losses, and you will suffer two more.”

I bit my lip.

Then—

“Death?” I said quietly.

The gypsy shook her head.

“Death has taken his toll and has gone his way. But the losses will be very sore. And the second will be the greater, although it will be the less.”

“How can that be?” said I.

“I cannot tell. As I say, so you will find it.”

“And then?”

The gypsy knitted her brows.

“It is strange,” she said, as though she spoke to herself. “You will not be unhappy, and yet you will be denied your heart’s desire.”

I made no comment, and presently she went on.

“I find it strange. I would not have said that you would cry for the moon.”

“That’s not like us,” I said.

“And yet you will. Your heart’s desire will be that which no man can have.”

“I see. Yet we shall be happy?”

“In one another. Always, always, the four will comfort the one.” She put her hands to her eyes. “That is all,” she said. “But, as I am standing here, it will come to pass.”

I got to my feet, took a note from my case and held it out.

“That is much more than my fee: and I would have asked you nothing, for you are a friend.”

“That is why I offer it you.”

“And that is why I take it. I wish you well.”

“My sister,” I said, “would wish to be remembered to you.”

“Please give her my best respects.”

“Won’t you send her your love?” I said.

Deborah’s face lighted.

“Indeed, I will,” she said. “And say that I have her picture fast in my heart.”

Then I took my leave and went home. And I slept for eight hours that night – a dreamless sleep.

As I have shown elsewhere, within four years the half of her words came true. And now her bitter-sweet prediction is being fulfilled. I could not read it – they say that you never can. But now the riddle is answered…

We are not unhappy, because we are five in one. Indeed, I think we resemble a half-hoop ring. Berry is set in the centre, and Daphne and Jill support him on either side: and Jonah and I are the flank-guards, for what they are worth. And if one is dull, the others lend it their virtue… And yet it is true that we lack our heart’s desire. But that is verily something that no man can have. I confess I never thought that we should cry for the moon. We don’t cry aloud, of course. But now and again we fall silent, and Berry, who is reading, forgets to turn over a page. He is looking over his book, at the smoulder and glow of the logs. And Daphne’s needle is still: and Jill’s grey eyes are sightless: and Jonah is frowning upon the bowl of his pipe. We have, I know, so much to be thankful for: we are, I know, properly grateful. But we should not, I think, be human, if now and again we did not remember the old days and wish them back. ‘O, call back yesterday, bid time return.’ Then Berry puts out a hand, and Daphne’s fingers take it; and Jill sets her cheek against mine, and Jonah is smiling again, as he feels for his pouch. The
mauvais moment
is over.

After all, the past is ours. Let the morrow bring forth what it will, the past is ours. Lordly year and season, and handsome month…gay weekend and exquisite summer evening…care-free hour and the flash of a laughing minute… Of these things we have the fee-simple: and no one and nothing can ever take them away.

…And so I wrote to Sir Edward, as you always said to do. He came down on the Wednesday, and Fitch and I said how we felt. He’s very understanding, Sir Edward. I told him that Fitch and I didn’t care what work we did and neither had Mr Falcon – he was cleaning the gallery casements the day he caught his chill: but we had to have men and maids as would do as we said. After all, we know White Ladies. But the young won’t take it from us, because Fitch and I are servants. It’s not like it used to be. Sir Edward saw at once, and he said he thought the best thing would be to have an ex-officer and him to hold a position like the Secretary of a Club. He knows a very nice gentleman that used to have his own place down Tewkesbury way. He used to be in the Scots Guards and he’s lost a leg. And he’d staff the house with ex-soldiers who’d do as he said. And then Fitch and I could retire as arranged, he said. He said that he’d write to you and see the other Trustees; but as he was sure you’d approve, he’d get in touch with the Colonel without delay. And now he’s coming tomorrow, to talk to me and Fitch and have a look round.

I seem to feel, Madam, that this will go through. And I hope and pray it will, for, no matter what we do, Fitch and I can’t keep White Ladies alone. We did the Royal Chamber this morning – it hadn’t been touched for days. I tell you, Madam, you’re better off with no one. And if it does go through, then our place is with you. We both of us feel that way, and if you would care to have us, we’ll come wherever you are. I can keep house and maid you and keep your things in order – you know I can. And I always did like sewing. And Fitch, as you know, can turn to anything. And if we can’t be at White Ladies, we’d rather go right away. After all, we’ve had the best, and things aren’t the same.

Hoping to have your decision very soon,

Yours very respectfully,

Bridget Ightham.

PS. I kept this open to tell you about the Colonel. I’m sure you’d like him, Madam, and he does know. Mr Falcon would have liked to hear him on how to keep the floors. And if the arrangement is made, he’ll come to be with us a fortnight and learn what we know. Not that we can teach him, but we do know White Ladies and all Mr Falcon did. Fitch took him to see the panel to Mr Falcon over the White Ladies pew.

Daphne’s reply went pelting.

1946.

My very dear Bridget,

Of course you must both come to us as soon as ever you can. Major Pleydell is making all arrangements and is writing to you himself. As I told you, we can’t go back to our home in France just yet. And so we are moving about – not an existence we like, but there you are. We have the house we are in for the next nine months. There is plenty of room, and I think you and Fitch will like it. It’s old-fashioned and very quiet, twenty miles from the town. Of course it’s inconvenient in many ways, but we are lucky to have it, and that’s the truth. All our stuff is in France, and we can’t get it out: but a friend has lent us some silver, and we have bought some rugs. There’s a pleasant room, which opens on to a courtyard, where you and my lady and I can sit and work – and talk about other days. Captain Pleydell is writing again, and Major Pleydell is building a dry stone-wall. He learned how to do it in France – they can’t do it here so well. He has a man to help him and lift the stones. The man can’t talk any English, and the Major can’t talk Portuguese; and to hear them conversing together would make you die.

Colonel Mansel and Carson are due next week. I hope they will bring a car, for ours is on its last legs. Major Pleydell usually drives it, for Captain Pleydell’s knee still gives him a lot of trouble – I fear it always will. But we are very happy in this quiet life. We’ve so much to be thankful for, Bridget. They’ve good English films in Lisbon, and sometimes we go a bust and drive into Town for the night. And we dine at a restaurant and my lady wears her pearls. But mostly we live very quietly day after day. So long as we can be quiet – you know what I mean. All that has happened – the changes – has driven us into ourselves. We can’t do anything about it, and so we have just retired. But it will be heaven to have you and Fitch again. How very nice of you both to want to be with us once more. And I know you’re right about White Ladies. Ever since your last letter, we had been worried to death. With a man like Colonel Scarlett, it should have a new lease of life. It mayn’t be a very long lease, for things that are old aren’t granted long leases today: but we have all done our best, and now we can’t do any more. We have, all of us, played our parts as well as we could. And now our play is over, for ‘period’ actors can’t do the modern stuff. It’s a new technique, Bridget, that you and I’ve never learned. So come and ‘pretend’ with us – like children playing ‘houses’… It doesn’t hurt anyone else, and it’s rather fun. I sometimes feel that we ought to do more than that. I’ve tried, and so have the others – more than once. But we’re out of our depth, Bridget, in this new world. So come and share what we have. It’ll be like old times to have you and Fitch about us…

Jill leaned over my shoulder, to set her cheek against mine.

“It’s half-past twelve, darling, and you promised to stop at twelve. Come out and get Berry in.”

An obedient husband, I rose and looked round for my stick.

“Take my arm,” said Jill.

We passed downstairs and into the shady courtyard, hung on our heel by the fountain of old, grey stone, and turned to climb the path that led to the pocket meadow where Berry was building his wall.

Unobserved by the operatives, we stood beneath a mimosa, watching the busy scene.

“You son of Belial,” said Berry. “You bull-nosed—”

A roar of delight cut short the apostrophe.

“
Sim, sim, senhor
.” Annibal’s eyes were upon a very round stone. “
A nossa bola
.”

“I’m glad you concur,” said Berry. “But I see no occasion for mirth. For mortification, perhaps.”

“
Gangrena
?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Berry. “Mock the sage and meet the wart-hog, you know. And now remove that vile body and put in its place that very beautiful rock. Yes, that one.
Esse
, you blue-based serpent. What d’you think I’ve fashioned it for?
Inutilizar
be damned. It’s a work of art.”

“
Muita bem
.”

“I should hope so.”

In silence one stone was discarded, and another was laid in its place. Berry adjusted this, grunting. Then he stood back.

“You see?” be said. “Fits like a blasted glove.”

“
Sim, sim, senhor. Muito elegante
.”

“You’ve said it, brother,” said Berry. “The great Benvenuto himself—”

“
Sim, sim. Bem venusto
.”

“You shut your head,” said Berry. “I was talking about a fellow craftsman. A most entertaining wallah, rather before my time. Oh, you know that word, do you? Wonderful how the b-brain’ll work for the b-belly, isn’t it? All right. Get to your flesh-pots, Annibal.
Artistico ressumpcao a tres horas
. And bring some crags when you come. We’re running short.”

“
Sim, sim, senhor
.” Annibal turned, to see us a little way off. “
Boas tardes, senhor, senhora
.”

We gave him good day.

“Well, there we are,” said Berry. “Gorge-like, the wall is rising, a sober monument. I glean a queer satisfaction from shaping and piling these stones. They’re big with sermons, you know, as Shakespeare says. And they need a wall of sorts here, and the one I’m building will last. It isn’t very lovely to look at, but—”

“I find it lovely,” said Jill. “And the lizards will, too. Years after our time, the lizards will make their homes there and sun themselves on its top.”

Berry nodded.

“History repeats itself. ‘They say the Lion and the Lizard keep the Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep.’ Come, my sweet coz. Let us complete the prophecy. A glass and a half of sherry will suit me down to the socks.”

As we turned to go back to the quinta—

“I’ll say you’ve earned it,” said I.

But Berry shook his head.

“Such increment,” he said, “is unearned. There have been times, in the past, when I have pulled my weight. But this here wall is a vanity.”

“So is my work,” said I, “for the matter of that.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jill.

“Let me put it like this,” said Berry. “Some animals, when aggrieved, put forth an offensive odour. Others, such as the skunk, are still more downright. Reluctant to employ methods so crude, your husband and I turn to labour – in self-defence. Such work is vanity, for it is inspired not by the lust for achievement, but by the urge to avoid vexation of spirit.”

“I don’t agree,” said Jill, taking his arm. “Good work’s never vanity. Just now you rejected the stone that Annibal chose. I thought it looked all right; but it wouldn’t do for you, because it was not the best. And Boy’s the same. He’ll spend half an hour on one sentence – until he’s satisfied. Well, that’s not vanity.”

“That’s
amour propre
,” said Berry. “Once you’re afflicted with that, you can’t shake it off. It used to be common enough. but I’m told the percentage of sufferers is very much lower today. Wonderful thing, progress.”

“I don’t care,” said Jill. “And
amour propre
and vanity don’t agree. We can’t compete today – I’ll give you that. And so we’re marking time. If we were standing easy, that would be vanity.”

Berry took her small hand and put it up to his lips. “You win – as always,” he said. “
Omnia vincit amor
– and always will.”

And there was my sister by the fountain, with a basket of grain on her arm and pigeons strutting and fretting about her feet.

When she heard us, she looked up, smiling.

Then she addressed her husband.

“You’re looking tired, darling. You ought to have stopped before.”

“You’re not – you’re looking lovely. But that’s your way.”

Daphne’s lips framed a kiss.

“Will you promise to rest till three?”

“Till five minutes to. The master must keep the disciple up to the bit.”

Daphne scattered the last of the grain. Then she took Berry’s arm and turned to the house. And Jill and I followed after.

“What were you discussing?” said my sister. “I thought I heard Latin used.”

“We were being very highbrow,” said Berry. “I furnished the feast of reason, and Jill the flow of soul. And then I repeated an adage, the truth of which you two darlings have never failed to shew forth.”

“Spare me the Latin,” said Daphne, “but what was that?”

“Women and children first. Ovid puts it better, but—”

“You wicked liar,” shrieked Jill. “Boy, what was it he quoted?”

“Virgil,” I said, laughing. “A very pretty saying.”

“I forbid you,” said Berry, “to repeat it. I will not wear my heart on my seat – sleeve.” Daphne winked at me over his shoulder. “Yes, I saw you, you witch. And while I’m washing my hands—”

“—we shall do our best,” said Daphne.

Her husband protruded his tongue.