House That Berry Built (25 page)

“It’s very wonderful,” said Daphne. “When I think of all that stoking, and Holly who got up at five to rake the clinkers out.” She pointed to the furnace switch-board. “And now that clock up there will do the whole thing.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“They call it progress,” I said. “I expect they’re right.”

We climbed the old-elm staircase and turned to the left.

The servants’ rooms were all exactly the same, except that Therèse had a pier-glass. Berry had seen to that.

Each had a built-in wardrobe, six feet long. One half was for hanging clothes, and the other was full of shelves. All could be locked and all had different keys. Each room was central-heated, and each had a pleasant basin, with hot and cold running-water, and a looking-glass hung above. The glass and the basin were surrounded by blue and white tiles. Three rooms looked to the east, and two to the west.

We passed to the servants’ bathroom. This had been very well done, in blue and white. The bath was encased. But, instead of a basin, there hung a capacious sink. Hand-washing could be done there. The lavatory stood by itself.

We turned at the end of the passage and made our way back. On our right, the
lingerie
made an attractive room. One side of it was all cupboards. The shelves were open or slatted, to let pass the heat which would rise from the pipes beneath. This, again, was Berry’s idea. It was he who had carried it out. An electric ‘ironer’ was awaiting experiments.

The
lingerie
looked to the west.

We let the attic go, and passed across the landing, through the service door and into the gallery. As was its fellow below, this was full of sunlight and sweet, fresh air.

Immediately on our left, the bathroom door was open, and the bathroom itself was alight with the morning sun. This, of course, was Daphne’s.

All powder-blue and white, it filled the eye. The floor and the walls were blue, and the bath and the basin were white. It was an ‘apron’ bath and it looked as though it had been moulded out of some gleaming stone. The sponge- and soap-niche beside it were almost too good to be true. On either side of the basin, a looking-glass hung. Over each had been placed a shaded electric light. The window was naturally recessed. Beneath the window was a shelf, all tiled in blue. And beneath the shelf were cupboards…

It was the finest bathroom I ever saw. And Berry had done it all. And when I say that, I mean it. No one had dared to interfere.

A second door from the bathroom led into his bedroom and Daphne’s.

On the left were two windows, admitting the morning sun. Between them was a built-in wardrobe of vast capacity. In front, were two more windows commanding the south. Between these hung a pier-glass. On the right was a pleasant fireplace, fashioned of brick. A second door led into the gallery.

Next to their room, facing south, were two rooms exactly the same. These were mine and Jonah’s. Each had a built-in wardrobe, a fireplace of brick, and a pier-glass between the two windows, which Berry had placed.

Then came Jill’s room. This was a lovely chamber, with its private bathroom beyond. The bathroom again was all blue, but the bedroom was to be white. The bathroom faced west, and a door gave out of that to the end of the gallery.

There we turned, to face east.

On our left two capacious cupboards delighted my sister’s heart. Then came another bathroom, Jonah’s and mine – again hung and floored with blue tiles. And then, all at once, we came to the head of the stairs.

Down these my sister passed…

Turning to the left, we came to the massive front door. This was open wide, and standing there we could hear the fountain playing some twenty-five paces away.

Immediately on our right was the morning-room. Here two large French windows gave to the east, commanding a glorious view of the Pic de Fer. Two more ‘door-windows’ gave to the terrace without. Another fireplace in brick had been built in the western wall.

Between this and the library lay two smaller rooms – first a withdrawing-room – for Jill and Daphne alone, and then the dining-room. Both opened on to the terrace, but nowhere else.

The whole of the front of the house was lit by indirect lighting. Because of the daylight, we could not prove it now, but the plaster bowls, within which the reflectors lay hid, were very good-looking, yet inconspicuous. (I call them ‘bowls’, for lack of a better term. They resembled bowls cut in half and then applied to the wall.) They were of course, to be painted with the same colour as their walls. Berry had sited every one with the greatest care – as well as every plug, for the day would come when we should have reading-lamps.

It was all very simple and direct. There were no frills. We had our quarters in the cross, and the servants had theirs in the stem – of the capital T. The whole house was full of light. It was certainly labour-saving – no doubt about that. And it was very convenient, and had been very well built.

We walked back up the gallery and out of the great front doorway into the porch beyond. The front door was facing north, but the porch faced west. We left the porch and turned right, to descend the ninety-three steps.

“I’m very lucky,” said Daphne. “Little more than a year ago, I was accepting the fact that never in all my life should I have a home again. And here I have a new home – a very beautiful home, much nicer than I deserve. Boy, you know, we’ve a lot to be thankful for.”

Be sure I agreed with her. White Ladies belonged to England. But here was ‘a foreign field’ that belonged to England, too.

From Lally to Freilles is roughly one hundred miles.

You can go by Pau and take the
route nationale
. Or you can strike across country and go by Oloron. If we went by Oloron, we should be traversing the region which Shapely had seen fit to visit on September the first.

The others took the Rolls and travelled by Pau. But Jonah and I took the Andret and went by Oloron.

The country was more than handsome. The foot-hills were in all their glory. The river, the Gave d’Oloron, was very plainly rejoicing to run his course. Hill and dale, meadow and woodland made up a panorama fit for the gods. We met a little traffic, but not very much. Often enough, we seemed to have the world to ourselves. We passed any number of by-roads and scores of tracks, many of which led into the heart of the woods. If I was right, and Tass lay buried here, his body might as well have been sunk in the ocean itself. That is to say, so far as any search was concerned. Of course, someone might stumble upon it…might…

To prove our case to the hilt, we chose a track at random and drove slowly into the wood which instantly swallowed it up. After two hundred paces, the track seemed to come to an end. We left the car and looked round. Except for the flutter of birds, there was no sign of life. There was not even a footpath; but some aged stumps of trees showed that the track had been used for hauling wood. Without losing sight of the car, a man could have dug at least twenty several graves, not one of which, had he been careful, would ever be found.

I began to wonder why Shapely had taken the trouble to buy any lime…

After a little, we backed the car down to the road and went on our way.

Freilles was certainly attractive. The
plage
was one of the finest I ever saw. It could have held at least two thousand bathers. That first afternoon I counted seventy-one. Every day we lunched and dined in the open air. This, at our little hotel: but we spent the whole day on the
plage
, which was ten minutes’ walk. The sun was very hot and the sea was delightfully warm. There was no wind. Had Daphne not brought some oil with her, we should have been badly burned.

But Freilles by night was transformed. It became like nothing that I have ever seen – except upon a stage. It was theatrical. The moon hung like a lantern – three times its size. The pines might have been properties, they stood so still. The sand was white. The whole was scenery. There was not a breath of wind, and music from the casino floated out into the woods to wander at will. The ceaseless thunder of the rollers hung upon the air like a back-cloth to lesser sounds, and the world was all black and silver, and still as death.

“It can’t be real,” said Jill, as we strolled down a shadowy road.

“We know it is,” said I. “But Nature is showing Art how to do her stuff. Critics would turn this down, if you shoved it on to the stage. They’d say it was overdone. And I don’t know that you could blame them. No one who hadn’t seen it, would ever believe.”

We wandered past elegant villas, standing well back from the road, and surrounded by pines. As far as I saw, no tree that could be spared had been cut. All windows and doors were open everywhere. You could see right into the rooms and observe the furniture.

The contents of one of the villas took us by storm. Standing in the shadows, we identified more than one piece.

“Look at that candlestick, Boy. What a lovely thing.”

“What about those corner-cupboards? I’ll swear they’re Chippendale.”

“That chest’s Italian. I know it. There used to be two at Irikli. And look at those two stalls. They came out of a church in Spain.”

“Mademoiselle,” said a voice, “is perfectly right. Three hundred years ago they stood in a church in Seville. Please come and look at them closely. The chest I found in Verona a year ago.”

“You’re very forgiving,” said Jill; “but we couldn’t dream of such a thing. I am so very sorry. We didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Mademoiselle has no need to tell me that. But I am an
antiquaire
. All these things are for sale. So please come in.”

We followed our invisible hostess into the house.

As we took our seats—

“You see,” said a very smart lady, “I have a shop in Paris: but this is my holiday home. Every year I come here for three months. But it is furnished from my shop, and if it is all sold tomorrow – well, then I shall get some more down, to take its place.”

“But it all looks so lovely,” said Jill. “I mean, it would be such a shame to break it up.”

“Madame,” said the other, “
antiquaires
have to live. And if they are true
antiquaires
, they have to learn to harden their hearts. I am now past the stage of hating to part with nice things. All that concerns me is that they go to a proper home, where people will care for them as I have and show them as they should be shown.”

It was perfectly clear to me that, while
‘antiquaires
have to live’, it would not be this lady’s fault if she failed to survive.

As though to confirm this impression—

“And now,” she said, “I shall leave you and take my small dog for a run. Customers like to look at things by themselves. I shall be back in ten minutes, and then I will answer whatever questions you please. But you must come back tomorrow, for things look different by day.”

Before we could protest, she was gone.

“Oh, Boy,” breathed Jill. “Those stalls…in the gallery…”

“Those corner-cupboards,” I said, “in the little drawing-room.”

The best thing there was a set of tapestry chairs. These were not in use, but stood in a little chamber beyond two wrought-iron gates. Outside a museum, I had not seen such a set. They were not, of course, for us; but when I had looked upon them my heart sank down. Madame Yvonne Martigny – the name was on one of her cards – was one of the great
antiquaires
. You had to have money to deal in such pieces as those.

I was still looking at them, when our hostess returned.

“Ah, Monsieur observes my set of tapestry chairs. I should not have them here really. They make the house smack of the shop. But there is no money in Paris, and they have cost me so much that I cannot hold on to them long.”

“What do you ask for them, Madame?”

“Eight hundred pounds.”

“I don’t think that’s dear,” I said; “but they’re not for people like us.”

“Of course they are not. Who has eight hundred pounds to spend in such a fashion today? If I sell them at all, they will go to America. But in fact they are not expensive. Eight years ago I could have sold those chairs for two thousand pounds.”

“I love those stalls,” said Jill.

Madame Martigny smiled.

“You should not have told me so. I would have let those go for thirty pounds. But now that I know that you like them, I double the price.”

“Oh, dear,” said Jill.

“Mademoiselle – I refuse to call you ‘Madame’ – I was but showing you the tricks of my trade. They are yours for twenty-five pounds. But do not sit in one; for, if you do, I shall give them to you for nothing. Your beauty against that background…”

I began to have great respect for the great
antiquaires
.

We purchased the stalls and the chest – and promised to return the next day.

So we did – after tea…with the others. Berry ran riot, as I had known he would. Madame Martigny and he got on like a house on fire. But if she was a business woman, he was a business man. Honours, I think, were even. But he made us all feel ashamed. When she asked ten pounds, he smiled and looked into her eyes and offered her four. But she smiled back and said ‘Eight’ – and he paid her six.

“I don’t say they’re not worth it,” he’d say, “but put them up to auction and see what you’d get.”

“Monsieur is telling me.”

“Very well then. I am offering more than the market price – and a great deal more than you paid. No, if I buy all this, you must help me out.”

I think we both did very well.

We bought the corner-cupboards, as well as the candlestick. We bought a pair of tallboys – a very rare thing: rare, because they were really period stuff. We bought a binnacle – a fine old fellow that had weathered some wicked seas. And we bought a fine
chaise longue
– the only comfortable one in which I have ever sat.

“And now,” said Berry, “to show that there’s no ill will, if you’ll let me telephone, I’ll do my very best to sell those chairs.”

“What do you mean?” said Daphne.

“Van Heusen’s at Biarritz. I saw it in the paper today. I met him two years ago, and he’s mad about tapestry chairs.” He turned to Madame Martigny. “I don’t know what you’re asking, but that’s a very fine set. Shall I say thirteen hundred pounds?”