Berry Scene (24 page)

Mrs Simon Beaulieu stopped in her stride. So did most within earshot. Then Jill was out in the street, and Patricia’s arms were about her, and everyone was smiling – to see Beauty living with Kindness before their eyes.

It was to our great content that Patricia Bohun, spinster, had married Simon Beaulieu less than a month ago: it was to our great concern that, immediately after their marriage, the two had disappeared. We had an uneasy feeling that here was no honeymoon. Though they were made for each other, they had so little money: and, by her marriage, Patricia had lost what she might have had. And now we had stumbled upon them… Of course we devoted an hour to their splendour of faith and love.

It was long past eleven o’clock when we picked our way out of Chartres. And from Chartres to Pau is more than four hundred miles. Still, the road to Tours was perfect – too good to be true. We crossed the Loire at exactly a quarter-past one.

Behind me, Berry was speaking.

“The hour produces the inn. Not to lunch at
The
— would be evidence of insanity.”

“No, you don’t,” said I. “We’ve plenty of sausage-rolls.”

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” screamed Berry. “Damn it, we’re going right by it: we don’t even have to turn off. Thirty minutes of civilization – that’s all I ask. Besides, I don’t fancy any more sausage-rolls. A cup of cold
Madrilène
–
Oh
, and what about beer? I can’t face a sausage-roll without a bottle of beer.”

“Be quiet,” said Jill. “You had two bottles at Chartres.”

“My perspiratory ducts have dealt with them. And one ought to soak the system in weather like this. After all, you water the garden: why not the flesh?”

“We’ll stop at a café,” I said, “and buy some bottles of beer. And ten minutes later, we’ll lunch by the side of the way. There’s a steak-and-kidney pie that we haven’t touched.”

“You can have it for me,” snarled Berry.

“That’s the idea,” said I. “We’ve got to get on. Of course, if you want to stay here…”

“My back’s no worse,” said Berry, “if that’s what you mean.”

“Then we’ll do it yet,” said I – and spoke as a fool. Ten miles south of Tours, they were mending the road.

We had lunched – I think, very well – and Jill and I were discussing the Beaulieus’ happy state, when I sailed round a bend at sixty, to see the shocking apparatus two hundred paces ahead. The epithet is deserved. France does most things by halves – but not her roads. When she remakes a road, she does the whole width at once; and the traffic which has to use it can take its chance.

After ploughing my way through metalling, waiting upon steam-rollers and, finally, helping two mules to drag a laden water-cart out of my path, I coaxed the Rolls on to a surface which would have done yeoman service in one of Chaplin’s films. The road had been torn in pieces – and that, for mile after mile.

I was very close to despair when we came to the end of this stretch: but, such is human nature, the sight of a four-mile reach, as straight as a ruler, as smooth as a racing-track, revived the hopes I had had. If we had seen the last of our troubles… I might have known. Three miles south of Chatellerault, without the slightest warning, we flounced clean into a section that might have been planned in Hell.

Only the Surveyor of a Department of France could have issued an order at once so futile and so preposterous. The road, which was pitted with pot-holes, had lately been lavishly tarred. The tar had not been covered, and there had been no rain. The road was no longer a road: it was now a long, long waste of pools of tar.

There are times when I dream of that stretch – some nine miles long. (I should, of course, have turned off. But this was a part of the country I did not know, and I was always hoping that every bend was hiding the end of the tar.) Though we moved at ten miles an hour, our wings were dripping before we had covered two. And a lorry came lurching by, to spatter the windows and wind-screen… As it flung on its way—

“Isn’t that nice?” said Berry. “Never mind. They say butter’s very good. We’d better have tea at Poitiers. If we save our pats, we can smear them over the door-handles. Then, when we want to get in, we shan’t get tar on our gloves. All the same, I can’t help feeling they’ve overdone it. If we meet much more traffic, we shan’t be able to see. And I do hope we don’t have a puncture. If we do, you must be careful to lay the tools on the step. Otherwise, they might get some tar on them. Oh, I suppose the step’s swamped. In that case, I should put them in your pocket… I beg your pardon… Oh, how rude. After all, I was only envisaging such a catastrophe. You see, with my back as it is, I can only advise. And nothing would distress me more than to have to view your embarrassment. Here’s another road-hog coming. Put your foot down, brother, and give him some tar to taste.”

I did so – with no compunction.

With a howl of apprehension, the driver cowered away…

And then we were half a mile off, but the lorry had come to rest by the side of the way.

Such things are not motoring.

As I have said, our ordeal was nine miles long: but when, two miles short of Ruffec, the same thing started again – the road pock-marked with pot-holes brimming with tar – I determined to turn at that town and hope for the best.

And so I did.

That we could not reach Pau that night was now very clear. I decided to make for Bergerac – not much more than a hundred miles away. Less perhaps; but I only knew my direction and I had not brought a map.

The afternoon was now over, and evening was coming in. And I think we were, all of us, glad of the lesser roads. Their surface was very fair, and because they were none too wide and the wayside trees were full, often enough we drove through a tunnel of living green. Then, again, we ran cheek by jowl with the countryside. We smelled the scent of the meadows and breathed the cool of the woods: we heard the speech of the water, as we passed over a bridge: and these things were better than liquor, after the burden and heat of that trying day.

Only, there were no sign-posts…

“Who cares?” cried Jill. “There never were any sign-posts in fairy-tales.”

At half-past seven I stopped by a lazy stream… And Jill produced a sponge… I never remember feeling so much refreshed.

Still, when I re-entered the car, I should have been glad to know where Bergerac lay. We had, of course, asked our way; but that was but waste of time. The French peasant cannot direct. Still, something had to be done. We were, all three, very tired, and though he never complained, I knew that Berry’s back was feeling the strain.

And then we ran into St Orlan…

I never had heard of the hamlet; but it seems that fishermen knew it, because it neighbours a water that is a fisherman’s dream. And since fishermen must be lodged – and some of them lodged very well – St Orlan has a very fine inn. The house is not pretentious. The hostess cooks, and the host himself leads his
garçons
, with an apron about his loins. But cooking and service are of the very best. And the rooms are clean and pleasant, and the bathrooms, of which there are two, are very well found.

That we deserved such good fortune, I cannot pretend: but when, at a quarter to nine, we sat down, bathed and changed, to a really excellent dinner, served in a jolly garden, behind the house – we all felt truly grateful for what we were receiving and were about to receive.

Great goodwill was shown us by everyone, and when, whilst we were at table, I spoke of the Rolls and asked that she might be washed by nine o’clock the next day—

“She is being cleaned now,” said the host. “As soon as I saw her state, I knew that Jean would wish to do her at once. He is an old coachman, Monsieur, and very serious. He will take off the tar with oil. And Alfred is helping him – that is my sister’s son. Monsieur need have no fear. She is safe in their hands.”

It was when we had drunk our coffee, and Jill and I were strolling, but Berry was sitting still, that our hostess appeared to greet us and say that she trusted the dinner had been to our taste.

After a little conversation, she looked across at Berry, who was making her husband laugh.

“Monsieur is tired,” she said. “His face is drawn.”

“It’s his back,” said I. “He’s had a rough time today, and he’s stood it remarkably well. But—”

And there my brother-in-law began to get to his feet, laying fast hold of the table, as well as the back of his chair. As the other made to assist him—

“You see,” I said.

But the lady was gone.

For a moment she trounced her husband.

“What an idiot you are, Pierre. Here is Monsieur in evident pain, and you never tell me. Have I eyes to see from the kitchen the state of my guests? But Monsieur is patient. Wait until you are attacked. They will hear your cries in Bordeaux.”

With that, she ran into the house – to reappear one minute later, bearing a little phial.

This was of brown-coloured glass and its cover, which was of skin, was fastened with silk.

As she peeled off the skin—

“Monsieur will drink this,” she said. “And tomorrow he will be well.”

“You’re very kind,” said Berry. “I only hope you’re right.” He took the phial from her. “Do I drink it all?”

“Yes, Monsieur. That is the dose. It is not unpleasant. A little bitter, perhaps.”

“Madame,” said Berry, “I’d drink a bucket of brine to be rid of this back.” He lifted the phial and bowed. “Your very good health.” He drank and handed it back. “Herbs, of course. The secret, no doubt, is yours.”

“It was my great-grandmother’s, Monsieur. And there is more there than herbs.”

“Magic,” said Jill.

“Madame is right. No physician would ever believe, because he will never believe what he cannot explain. And so his patients must suffer, until they can suffer no more. The herbs, of course, are good: but all depends upon how and when they are gathered – and other things.”

“I believe,” said Jill.

“Madame does not have to assure me. I have seen Madame’s face. And her faith will stand her in stead for so long as she lives, for Nature loves those that are faithful and give her credit for all the wonders she works.”

At eight o’clock the next morning, Berry came into my room.

I propped myself on an arm.

“Whatever’s the matter?” I said.

Berry’s reply was to take off his dressing-gown.

Then he stood up very straight and extended his arms before him, holding his palms downward, as they do at physical drill. Then he leaned slowly forward, keeping his knees unbent. After two or three efforts he managed to touch his toes.

Thirty seconds later, I knocked at Jill’s door.

My lady was sitting up, eating bread and honey and drinking
café-au-lait
.

“The traditional diet,” I said. “God save Your Majesty.”

“You are sweet, aren’t you?” said Jill, and put up her face to be kissed.

“Berry’s cured,” I said. “I’ve just seen him touch his toes.”

“Hurray,” said Jill. “And don’t say it’s an accident.”

It’s magic,” said I. “ It must be.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” said Jill. “The magic’s done it, of course. But how did we come to St Orlan? We aimed at Pau, but spokes were put in our wheel. Patricia and Simon at Chartres, and then the tar. But for that, you’d never have turned at Ruffec… You know, it’s awfully simple, if you can only believe.”

I put out my hand for hers.

“My God, I shall miss you,” I said.

The fingers tightened on mine.

“
Tout passe
,” said Jill quietly. “
L’amitié reste
.”

Four days had gone by, and Daphne was perched on the arm of her husband’s chair.

“Well, you know where to go,” she said, “if ever you get it again.”

“You’re telling me,” said Berry. “And in any event, you must see it. You’ve simply got to be in on a place like that. And they’ll fall down and worship you.”

“Don’t be absurd. But I’d like to meet Madame Brulet and thank her for what she’s done. By the way, there’s a letter from Toby.”

Her husband ripped it open and read it aloud.

Dear Berry.

I rather think you know that you’ve done the trick. God bless you all. I mean, it was touch and go. Poor old Toby was in it, over his knees. And Aunt Ira’s actually contrite. I’ve never seen her like this. I’m the prodigal son with knobs on – thanks to you. If ever you’re in a jam, you can have my guts. My love to Daphne and Jill. They’re still the best I’ve seen.

Toby.

“No one can say,” said I, “that Toby is inarticulate. What’s rather more to the point, he means what he says.”

“So does Mrs Medallion,” said Berry. “And so does Madame Brulet. What a precious thing honesty is. But I’d love those two to meet. Madame Brulet and Mrs Medallion. Which would you back?”

“Much would depend,” I said, “on Mrs Medallion’s health.”

And there I believe I was right.

Anyway, seeing’s believing: and I have told what I saw.

In Which Berry Meets Mr Wireworm,

and I Keep the Truth to Myself

“When will he come out?” said Daphne.

“On Wednesday next,” said Berry. “The Governor is arranging for him to be put on the bus. That means that he should be here by half-past ten.”

“I wonder if The Bold will know him.”

“I doubt it,” said I. “Six weeks is a lot, when you’re only two months old.”

My sister regarded her husband over the rim of her glass.

“Poor man,” she said. “I think you were very severe.”

“In fact, I wasn’t,” said Berry. “I tempered justice with mercy. And that was before I knew that he had a dog.”

“But that explained everything.”

“It explained why he lost control. But you can’t go about attempting to murder people because they comment adversely upon the looks of your dog. I think he’s the King of Beasts, but he does suggest the monster, if you get him against the light. And his nose resembles a spur-rest – you can’t get away from that.”

“Do be careful,” said Daphne, regarding The Bold. “Supposing he tells his master what you’ve just said.”

“In that case,” said Berry, “I shall be vivisected before your eyes. But I count upon his good taste. After all, he’s broken my bread.”

Here The Bold advanced upon him and, rising upon his hind legs, scrabbled upon his trousers with all his might.

“The Bull of Bashan,” said Berry, “demands some grouse. He’s gaping upon me with his mouth. But have a heart, old fellow. These pretty pants were never made to whet your little claws. There you are. There’s a succulent morsel. Don’t eat it all at once.”

A touch upon my ankle suggested that Nobby had digested this irregularity.

“Damn it,” I said, “you’re demoralizing my dog.”

“It isn’t me,” said Berry. “It’s this damned Royalty.”

“He’s a law to himself,” said Daphne. “But I must confess that he has a most charming way.”

“His eyes are bulbous,” said Berry. “Every time I see them, I want to ring the bell.”

“You are revolting,” said Daphne. “And most unkind. Poor little boy. And he’s been a perfect guest. I shall miss him terribly. No, not my stockings, darling. Oh, damn. He’s done it again.”

She regarded an excellent leg, the excellent stocking of which had been ripped by the baby claws.

“The perfect guest,” said her husband.

Ignoring the saying, my sister dealt with The Bold.

“Now that’s very naughty,” she said. “You’re a naughty dog. Look at poor Daphne’s stocking.”

The Bold lowered his tail and passed beneath the table, to lie at her feet. Nobby followed, to offer what comfort he could.

“Nobby’ll miss him,” I said. “I’m really quite worried about it. He simply adores that scrap.”

“But you think he’ll ask us to keep him?”

“I think he may. I mean, he’s better off here than making a voyage to China before the mast.”

“I can’t bear to think of it,” said Daphne. “Why shouldn’t we offer to buy him?”

“In view of his master’s outlook, I don’t think we can do that.”

“I agree,” said Berry. “Blood royal is not bought and sold. The suggestion that we should keep him must come from the Chinaman. And even then I don’t think we can offer him money. Any way, I’m not going to. I don’t want an abdominal wound.”

“We can’t take him for nothing,” said Daphne. “I mean, he must be worth about fifty pounds.”

“Can’t help that,” said Berry. “You wait till you see his demeanour towards that dog. Damn it, he does obeisance.”

“Look at it this way,” I said. “If the Chinaman asks us to keep him, it will be because he desires to do his best for The Bold. That he is giving him to us won’t enter his head. He will be furnishing The Bold with a household befitting his state.”

“Offensive, but true,” said Berry. “In that fanatic’s eyes, we’re less than the dung beneath his charge’s heels. Never mind. He’s probably made a vow to convey The Bold to some filthy temple he knows. There he’ll sprawl on a priceless mat, and the faithful will feed him until he’s too fat to walk. And the priests will groom him daily and sell the fleas. By the way, did you see Alice Weston?”

“I did,” said Daphne, “in vain. She and George are determined to stay at the farm.”

Caracol Farm was one of the three we had. The house, which was old and ugly, had been burned to the ground in June; and a very much nicer dwelling was to be built in its stead. Indeed, the plans had been passed and the site had been cleared. But building is a slow business. It seemed likely that, do what we would, the new house would not be ready for several months. And George and Alice Weston declined to leave the farm. Their children had been taken by a convenient aunt, but husband and wife were ‘camping out’ in a barn. That was all very well in the summer, for George and Alice were young: but the autumn was coming in, and the winter was looming behind.

“I did my best,” said Daphne; “but George refuses to leave, and she feels that her place is with him. And they have no comfort at all. George has run up some partitions, and everything’s spotlessly clean. But they’ll die of cold in the winter.”

“Of course they will,” said Berry. “What fools they are. The trouble is I can see George’s point of view. He’s proud and fond of his stock, and he won’t live five miles off. If only there was a cottage… I’ll go over on Monday and see him again. If the weather breaks before then, that may open his eyes.”

“We’re lunching at Buckram on Monday.”

“So we are,” said Berry. “Never mind. Tuesday will do. I do hope they give us melon. The melons of Buckram used to be very good. And the table old Ludlow kept belonged to the books. I remember being sick there when I was five years old.”

“You filthy beast,” said his wife.

“Don’t be absurd,” said Berry. “That was a compliment.”

Our visit to Buckram Place was over and done.

It had been a very pleasant experience. Our host, George Ludlow, was rising eighty-six, but, if he lived in the past, he never disclosed the fact. Things were certainly done at Buckram as they had always been done. The lawns were mown every morning: the papers were ironed: horses stood in the stables: certain woods were reserved, to provide the household with fuel – and, as they were felled, were replanted, to furnish households to come. But cocktails were served before lunch: the servants had the use of a car: and our host was dressed as we were – soft collar and country clothes. And Jonathan Baldric and Natalie Edgecumb were there, old Ludlow’s great-nephew and -niece, each in love with the other for all but them to see. From first to last, the past was scarcely referred to: but when the men were alone, old Ludlow spoke these words.

“White Ladies, Bell Hammer, Buckram – much of the fortune of England depends upon houses like these. They are homes not only for us, but for many beside. My note-paper always lies in the servants’ hall: I like them to feel that their address is Buckram – not ‘care of me’. But, quite apart from that, such houses point the virtue of having a stake in the country. And that fine idea is absorbed, for five out of six of the people who leave my service, do so to found homes of their own. I always try to help them, for the man that has a stake in the country is a man who, when things go wrong, has something to lose.”

And now our visit was over and we were on the way back.

We were running through lovely country, quite unspoiled, when we came to a little bridge. On the farther side, the road turned sharp to the left, to run beside the water and so at right angles to the bridge. And there the road was blocked, for a car was half on to the bridge and the caravan it was drawing was lying athwart the road.

What mistakes its driver had made, I do not know: but now he could not go forward, for his nearside wing would have fouled the parapet: and, if he went back, the caravan would enter the river without any doubt.

A nice-looking man, in his shirt-sleeves, came languidly up to my side.

“Yes,” he said. “I did it. I created the obstruction, all by myself.” He looked at Daphne and bowed. “I am extremely sorry that you should be inconvenienced; but, if you want to get on, I should take some other way.”

As I left the Rolls—

“Perhaps we can help,” I said.

“I doubt it,” said the other ruefully. “What we need is a mobile crane.” He put his hands to his head. “You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been through with this van. If I could find a buyer, I’d sell the blasted thing. Damn it, I’d give it away… They’re quite all right, as long as you leave them alone. It’s when you take the road that they spoil your life. In the last three days I’ve covered thirty-four miles. My wife gave in last night and I sent her home by train. She couldn’t face any more. The rows I’ve had – with other road-users, I mean. Of course, I’m in the wrong for trying to drag the swine about the place. But people are unsympathetic. You’re very nice about it: but a char-à-banc yesterday evening was very rude. And I should have been back in London on Saturday night. And at my office this morning. And here I am. Are you sure you don’t want to buy it? It cost me two hundred and fifty six weeks ago: and you can have it – and welcome-for seventy-five.”

“As it stands?” said Berry, opening his door.

I turned to look at him.

“As it stands,” said the other. “It’s a couple of beds and a bath and a very good cooking-stove: and a sink and a water tank: and lockers to burn. Go and have a look at the brute.”

Berry consulted with Daphne. Then he opened the door for my sister, and she got out.

“May we really see it?” she said. “We happen to have two tenants who are short of a house. And while their home’s being built…”

“This would be ideal,” said the other. “The cooker heats the water, and on a chilly evening she’s beautifully warm. As long as she’s standing still, I’ve no complaints: but I can’t pretend she’s mobile. And a van that isn’t mobile is of no use to me.”

We crossed the bridge, and my sister entered the van.

When she came out—

“It’s absurdly cheap,” she said, “at seventy-five. But, to tell you the truth, we don’t want to pay any more.”

“Madam,” said the stranger, “I’m out to cut my loss. If you offered me fifty, I’d take it.”

“Seventy-five,” said Berry. “You’ll take a cheque?”

“Of course,” said the other. “Francis Berwick’s the name.” He took out a cigarette-case. “Here’s my card. Come and sit down in the van. And you shall write the cheque and I’ll write a receipt.”

Five minutes later the curious deal was done.

Then we chocked the wheels of the van and disconnected the car. Thus freed, the car could be backed…

It was an awkward business, because, as I have said, the van was across the road; but at last I coaxed her round and over the bridge. I berthed her some twenty paces behind the Rolls.

Then I left the driver’s seat and mopped my face.

“You see,” said Berwick. “You’re very much better than I am, but—”

“I don’t know about that. She’s the very devil to handle on roads like this. And if you do make a mistake…”

“Exactly,” said Berwick.

He laughed and entered the van, to get his suit-cases out.

While he was transferring his gear, I disconnected the car.

Five minutes later, the latter was ready to leave.

“Well, thank you very much,” said her owner. “You’ve done me a very good turn.”

“It’s suited us,” said Daphne…

Berwick squared his shoulders.

“
The Pilgrim’s Progress
,” he said. “I feel as Christian did, when his back was freed from the weight of his sack of sins.”

One minute later, his car was out of sight.

“And now then,” said Berry.

“A decent fellow,” said I, “but a full-marks fool. Alone in the car and he brings this thing across country… His only chance was to stick to the main highway. We’ll have to have Fitch and the Vane to get it back. And I shall have to help him.”

Daphne regarded her husband.

“You’ll have to stay here,” she said, “and look after the van. Boy and I’ll drive—”

“I beg your pardon,” said Berry.

“Well, we can’t leave it unattended.”

“I can,” said Berry. “In view of the last half-hour, I can even leave it unwept.” He licked a broken knuckle. “If anyone had told me this morning that, before the day was out, I should be coupling and uncoupling my own pantechnicon in a Wiltshire Lane—”

“But what about the contents?” screamed Daphne. “Those mattresses alone—”

“We must lock it up,” said her husband. “Lock it up and forget it. And tomorrow Fitch and George Weston can hale it to Caracol.”

“That’s all right,” said I.

And so it would have been, if Francis Berwick had remembered to leave the key.

All three of us ransacked that van in search of that key. First, I did so: then Daphne: confronted with our reports, appalled by their fearful import, Berry refused to accept them and did so again.

With yells of disappointment, he wrenched the lockers open and scrabbled inside: he heaved the mattresses up, to grope beneath and beyond them, muttering fearful things: he scoured the bathroom and pantry, all the time shouting predictions regarding such as saw fit to embarrass the godly, till Daphne and I, weak with laughter, withdrew to the Rolls. And there he presently joined us, with dirt all over his hands and fairly streaming with sweat.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said, “about the larder. It’s beautifully conceived. But you ought to be able to open it when you’re outside the van. I mean, I think it’s been forgotten. Of course this heat is unusual. But I do think they might have let the sausages out. And now we needn’t bother about the key. The first man who opens that door will run for the police. Talk about trunk murder.”

“My darling,” said Daphne, “you know we can’t leave it like this. If someone dishonest comes by—”

“We’ve been here for over an hour and seen nobody yet.”

“I know. But the road is public. Supposing, as soon as we’ve gone, some gypsies come round that bend.”

“Oh, hell,” said Berry.

“Exactly. When we returned tomorrow, the van would be stripped. I’m really dreadfully sorry, but Boy will be as quick as he can.”