Berry Scene (19 page)

“Then devote one side to your staff. Do as they do in France, and let some live out.”

“What a tidal brainwave,” said Valerie, clapping her hands. “Next door to the hall, and all. And when they grow old in our service, they’ve only to cross the floor.”

Here Lady Plague arrived.

“I insist upon knowing,” she said. “Have you told them about the baths?”

“Not yet,” said Anthony.

“Discourse,” said Berry. “Discourse.”

“Well, it’s silly to put in bathrooms, so I’m having a bathhouse built. That’s going under the hall. Hot water every, evening from six to nine: hot water every morning for washing clothes. I don’t know whether it’ll work.”

“What could be better?” said Berry. “‘
The flesh
at night,
the vest
and
drawers
by
day
.’”

“Really!” said Daphne.

“Gluckstein,” said Berry. “I mean, Goldsmith. Out of
The Converted Village
. I remember it perfectly. ‘And
those
who came to
wash
remained to
bathe
.’”

“Berry,” said Lady Plague, “I give you best.
The Converted Village
alone is worth a weekend. And you’re only going to have lunch.”

“Come and name our new cocktail,” said Valerie, “and you shall stay for a month.”

As we followed her and my sister into the house—

“You know,” said Lady Plague, “it’s like sawbones.”

“Sawbones?” said I.

“Yes. That silly game that everyone was playing before the war. There were family quarrels about it. When someone had done two-thirds of Rembrandt’s
Night Watch
—”

“You mean, jigsaws,” said I.

“Do I? Never mind. They used to give them to the sick – a most extraordinary procedure. If I was ill, the last thing I should want to do would be to reconstruct Rembrandt’s
Night Watch
. But as we’re all well and strong we’ve fallen for this new game. Andrew’s quite silly about it. The billiard-room is our wash-pot. The table’s been covered with cork, and the cork with plans. And we have a board for ‘Ideas’. What are you thinking, Boy?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Berry and Anthony Lyveden were not to be seen.

“Strictly between you and me, is Pouncet going to like it?”

“Of course not,” said Lady Plague. “Pouncet is going to loathe it with all its might. It’ll loathe the pub and the hall and, except to pinch the soap, it won’t go near the baths. The drainage it regards as an insult – that we know. And, to mark its disapproval, half the village will leave – and cut off its rotten nose to spite its rotten face. But Anthony’s ready for that. Their homes will be swept and garnished, and then will be possessed by disabled ex-service men. That’s what’s at the back of his mind. He’s got a young architect who’s lost a leg in the war, and he’s ear-marked a sergeant-major to run the pub.”

I sighed.

“It’s a great thing,” said I, “to be a monarch. If we owned Bilberry…”

“What then?”

“You must ask Berry,” I said. “The sorry tale is his.”

The cocktail was very good. Berry named it
Dry Auburn
– which I thought was better still.

Appealed to at lunch, he related our tale of woe.

“This,” he said, “is a Saturday afternoon. By rights, we should be playing cricket – and putting Gamecock or Dovetail where they belong. That we are not is due to our Mr Doogle, an unattractive swine, for whom humanity falls into two classes only – blood-suckers and wage-slaves. Mr Doogle appeared in the village some eighteen months ago. That he came in haste and by stealth cannot, I think, be denied, and Doogle” – he spelt it – “seems to me a queer name. The less sympathetic suggest that his surreptitious arrival was due to a desire to avoid bloodshed and that, had he remained in the North, more than one of his veins would most certainly have been opened in the crudest possible way. To this view, I incline, for he has been heard to boast that, while his conscience prevented him from serving his King in the field, such was his personal energy in fomenting strikes that, during the critical years, he cost his country more than a million working hours. Now our Mr Doogle is cunning – I’ll give him that. Of White Ladies he speaks no ill. Instead, he continually proclaims how fortunate – nay, blest the village is in such a neighbour. With a loud voice, he applauds our condescension in worshipping in the same Church, in patronizing the same shops, in joining in the same games as ‘the common man’. He begs the village to consider how much it costs us so to demean ourselves. Finally, when I came out of Church after reading the lessons, he led the cheers. There were, of course, no cheers to lead. Well, I give the brute best. Our Mr Doogle has done his job – the job he is paid to do, for he has money to spend, but he does no work. Every gesture we make is now suspect. The old fellows love us still: but the younger – see through us. Class hatred has come to stay.”

A painful silence succeeded Berry’s words.

Then—

“I’m not surprised,” said Valerie. “White Ladies was bound to stand high on the Communists’ danger-list.”

“And what of their agent?” Lady Plague’s eyes were afire. “Better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck. My God, what fools people are!”

“What,” said Anthony Lyveden, “is Doogle like?”

“Undersized,” said Berry. “A rat of a man. Thin, reddish hair, and protruding eyes. Age about forty. Can you place him?”

“I think I can. I believe his true name is Elgood – that would be Doogle reversed.”

“Well done, indeed,” cried Daphne – and spoke for us all.

“Go on,” said Berry. “Go on.”

“Well an agitator called Elgood left Durham early last year. On the eve of an inquest on a woman who took her life. He’d been blackmailing her. Some search was made for him, but no charge could be made and so he wasn’t pursued. The coroner was – very outspoken. I happen to know these things, because the woman was the wife of a sergeant-major I know. He was once my first servant, and I hope he’s coming to Pouncet to run the pub. As a matter of fact, he’s coming to Bell Hammer next week. Warren, his name is – one of the best of men. And I’ve little doubt that he’d like a word with Elgood – or, as he once described him, ‘that little red rat’.”

“He can have it,” said Berry, “for certain on Saturday night. From what Fitch, our chauffeur says, that’s guest night at
The Rose
. Doogle’s guest night, I mean. He dilutes his doctrines with whiskey. After two or three rounds, they turn into obvious truths.”

Anthony fingered his chin.

“You mustn’t be on in this act, and neither must I. I’ll have a word with Warren, and you have a word with Fitch. And Warren shall report to Fitch at nine on Saturday night. I think it must be the man.”

“It must be,” said everyone.

“If it is,” said Lyveden, “when he’s discharged from hospital, I feel that he will cross Bilberry off his map.”

“Let’s hope he tries Pouncet,” said Berry. “By that time Warren will certainly be installed: and when Doogle limps into
The Godly Shipman
, in search of a double Scotch – well, he’ll feel the world’s against him, won’t he? And now to return to our
moutons
(very low French). I understand Pouncet is peevish – doesn’t want to be washed and brushed. If you want to disperse her dudgeon, set up an elegant conduit in the midst of your quad. This must have two pipes – one connected to the main water, and one to the pub. And then on high days and holidays, such as the anniversary of the discovery of smallpox, the fountain can run with beer.”

Neither Berry nor Daphne nor I will ever forget the highly fantastic trick which Fortune played before us upon the next day but two.

For Sir Andrew Plague’s visit, arrangements had been carefully made. The Bold had been confined to the housekeeper’s room – a sentence for which he had summoned his most indignant stare. Nobby had been bathed and cautioned. A simple lunch had been ordered – Sir Andrew liked plain food. His appetite being healthy, a cold steak-and-kidney pie – a delicacy to which he was partial – was in reserve. And the household was standing by at a quarter-past twelve.

Since I was upon the lawn, but the others were in the house, I alone of us three saw the outrage take place.

At five and twenty to one Sir Andrew’s car had turned in at our entrance-gates, when a van turned in behind it and then, by the use of its hooter, demanded way. Sir Andrew’s chauffeur naturally took no notice, for, apart from anything else, the drive was very ancient and, therefore, none too wide. Upon this, with his hooter screaming, the driver of the van deliberately forced his way by, compelling Sir Andrew’s chauffeur to take his car on to the turf and over the roots of a tree.

As Berry and Daphne appeared, the van was pulled up all standing before the door, and Coker Falk flung out and ran to its back. As he and his accomplice were lifting out a large picture, the car came to rest, alongside, but slightly in rear.

Sir Andrew was half out of his window, stick in hand.

“You murdering blackguards,” he roared. “You bloody-minded felons. Lemme out of this car, Spigot. I’ll show them what murder means. I’ll teach them to cram their betters on private roads.”

It was a fearful business.

Sir Andrew was enormously fat and a giant of a man. His face was normally red, but now it was blue. He had leaned so far out of the window, that now, when he sought to do so, he could not retire: indeed, had the door been opened, he must, I think, have gone with it, and Spigot wisely refrained from doing as he was bid.

Coker Falk disregarded his yells, addressing Berry and Daphne, as though the stage was his.

“Well, folks, I guess you’ll allow Coker Falk can do his stuff. Don’t you notice this boyo: he’s only sore ’cause I pushed him. When Coker Falk is moving, wise guys get under the seat. See here, Charming, you couldn’t afford these cunning compositions – Junior told me so: an’ so I’ve brought them along, to hang in the old ancestral in place of the picture-clock.” He ripped its wrapping away, to expose
Beyond the Mules
. “You’ve got to stand back for this one.” Here he stepped back – within range. “But once—”

Sir Andrew’s stick fell upon his shoulder – and shivered with the force of the blow. With a howl of pain, Coker swung round, to meet a blast of invective that took his breath away.

“And that’s nothing,” yelled Sir Andrew. “Wait till I’m out. That’s not even an earnest of what you’re going to get. I’ll tear your head from your body. I’ll—”

“See here, gargoyle,” shrilled Coker, “you can’t get funny like this with Coker Falk. I’m an American citizen, an’—”

Sir Andrew laughed – a laugh of such hideous menace as made the blood run cold.

“So was Crippen,” he blared: “but he died over here. My God, lemme out of this car. You all of you heard him say ‘gargoyle’. I’ll kill him for that. And that filthy offal there shall serve as his winding-sheet.”

“See here, ogre, if you think you can bluff Coker Falk—”

“Bluff?” screeched Sir Andrew. “
Bluff?
Goats and monkeys, I’ll show him. I’ll…”

Coker had not stopped talking: Sir Andrew’s disapproval was superimposed upon his.

“—get tougher, bogey, I guess I’ll have to show you the ugly way. If you’d been chased when you were a little rosebud…”

“—an alien scourge. And then you can have his vile body and cast it into the draught.”

Here, with a madman’s effort, the ravening knight fought his shoulders out of the window and into the car. And then the door was open, and he was down in the drive.

As he launched himself at Coker, the latter started back and, catching his heel in its wrapping, fell into
Beyond the Mules
. The canvas, of course, gave way, and Coker went through the frame, which his trembling accomplice continued to hold upright.

This brought Sir Andrew up short, and Spigot seized the occasion and caught his arm.

“Steady, Sir Andrew. The man’s not worth your attention.”

His master turned upon Spigot and shook him off.

“Stand back,” he roared. “I’m going to abate a nuisance – a filthy, verminous nuisance, that wears the shape of a man.”

My sister was by his side.

“Sir Andrew,” she said, “my husband has sent for the servants and…”

But Berry and I were not waiting. Between us, we picked up Coker and flung him into the van. Then I seized
Beyond the Mules
and pitched that in upon him, and Berry slammed the doors.

Then he addressed the accomplice.

“Get into the cab and drive off. And tell Mr Coker Falk that, if he appears again, I shall have him thrown into a cellar and send for the police. He’s molested me and insulted one of my guests. And he will return at his peril – and so will you.”

As the fellow started his engine, Coker was thrashing the panel behind the driver’s seat.

“Here, you,” he howled, “you’re taking your orders from me. You leave this truck where it is and let me out. That fat thug’s lammed my shoulder and spoiled a museum piece. I’ll say I’m sore. An’ when Coker Falk gets sore, wise guys…”

Amid the storming of gears, the rest of the adage was lost.

Berry turned to the gardeners who had come up at a run.

“See that van out, and close the entrance-gates.”

Daphne met us, as we re-entered the house.

“Cocktails on the terrace,” she said. “I’m going to drink two. Sir Andrew will have his upstairs. Spigot says he’ll be quite all right in a quarter of an hour.”

“I shan’t,” said Berry. “I shan’t be all right for years. To emerge with the object of greeting a highly punctilious guest; instead, to be confronted with a quarrel – not to say, brawl, which is not so much indecent as obscene, in which to interfere is as much as one’s life is worth, is not conducive to that sweet and regular rhythm which the valves of the heart should preserve. Which reminds me, great heart, how did you lure the rogue lion away from his kill? I mean, we were occupied.”

“I invoked Lady Touchstone,” said Daphne. “I mean, Lady Plague. I said I was sure that she would be greatly upset if he soiled his hands with such trash. He looked at me very hard. Then he said, ‘Her mantle becomes you’, and let me lead him away.”