House That Berry Built (31 page)

“–observed my absence,” said Berry. “If only Therèse had been here, I should not have been marooned in a desert place. You’re a poisonous lot of jackals – that’s what you are. What harm have I ever done you? And not a human being, much less a vehicle. The blasted world to myself. I never felt so utterly gregarious. If I’d seen a verminous nigger, I’d have put my arms round his neck. And then night fell. Damned well fell. I saw it. And that was the last thing I did see – till moonrise, at half-past ten. Talk about darkness… I was afraid to move. You know, it isn’t funny – being marooned by night on the edge of a bottomless pit. The natural lust for movement becomes less marked. At last I entered the forest, in the hope of finding a staff, with which I could tap what I hoped was the ground before me, as blind men do…” He sighed. “The coppice in question seemed to be out of staves. Plenty of roots, you know. I – found them all right: but, as I kept on pointing out, I wanted something detached. And then, at last, I fell over something that moved… I returned to the road with a branch which must have weighed seventy pounds, but, you know, you soon get tired of handling a cane like that. Besides, it wanted lopping. A lot of minor branches, so to speak, confused the issue: and when I’d tripped over them twice, I screamed like a madman and cast it into the draught. At least, I thought I had, but I never heard it fall, so I thought I must have made a mistake. And then, two minutes later, I heard a very faint crash… You know, that sort of thing is bad for the heart. After that, I proceeded in the ditch. I confess I’ve known better going, but at least I ran no risk of walking over the edge. Culverts, of course, don’t count. If you strike one of them, you only fall thirty feet. At the foot of the second one I found myself screaming aloud. I thought of my bath and the soap-niche, of the pleasant change and a cocktail with my back to the fire, and then one of Eugène’s dinners… I suppose I’m in my right mind. I’ve had so many brain-storms, I don’t know what to think.”

Here the road bellied out, and Jonah, with Carson to guide him, began to turn the car.

“We’re all very sorry,” said I. “But it was nobody’s fault. So long as you haven’t caught cold… And now what about a snack? We’ve some soup in a thermos-flask, and two of Eugène’s pâtés, and beer and champagne on ice.”

“A glass of champagne,” said Berry, “would help me up. Supposing we stopped about here. But I won’t get out of the car. How much champagne have you got?”

“Three bottles,” said I. “Of the Roederer ’21.”

“Only three bottles?” said Berry. “That was very short-sighted. Well, you and Jonah and Carson will have to get home on beer.”

In fact, we got home on brandy – at half-past four.

As we alighted on the apron, Daphne, Jill and Therèse appeared at the head of the steps.

“They must be in heaven,” said Berry. “Ring for the lift.”

“There’s a great gulf fixed,” said I, “of ninety-three steps.”

Berry leapt into the air and began to run down the drive.

“I’m a nymph,” he yelled. “They caught me up in the mountains. They’ve got designs upon me. Where’s Uncle Pan?”

Daphne and Jill were scathing; but I had a feeling that Herrick would have approved.

In Which We Gain a Spare Room,

and Jill Turns the Fountain Off

June slid into July, and Lally was full.

Visitors drank the waters and strolled up the road to Besse: the little Casino was crowded – sometimes a slant of its music would reach our ears. All day long, on the farther side of the valley, cars snaked up to Lally and on to the Col de Fer. None of the world of fashion were staying in Lally itself: many, of course, passed through, but those who stayed were quiet men and women of the upper shop-keeping class.

Berry had a word with the Mayor – our very good friend. And very soon word went round that on the fourteenth of July, the terrace and the gardens of Gracedieu would be open to visitors from two o’clock until five.

That day the flags flew from the terrace, the Union Jack and the Tricolour, hoisted at either end, lazily floating in the sunshine which filled a cloudless sky.

At noon we drove out for a picnic, and Carson, Therèse and Eugène were left in charge.

We passed through Cluny and Jules, climbed three thousand feet and lunched at the foot of the famous Pic des Loups. Here was meadow and beechwood and, if I may be believed, a lazy stream – that might have come out of the English countryside. We made good friends with a herdsman, aged sixty-five. He had been born at Jules and had never been further than Nareth, except to fight. Yet he was well-informed and his judgment was good. What is almost more to the point, he was clearly content with his lot. His words have stuck in my mind.

“I would not change places, Monsieur, with any man that I know. Two years ago my brother left me his fortune – more than enough to have bought a substantial farm. But how would that profit me? I earn a decent living, I have my cottage at Jules and an excellent wife. Be sure, we talked it over; but we did not think that we could improve our portion. I think much unhappiness comes to people who strive to do that. Consider only the Boche. He has a fat country, but he is not content. He desires to rob his neighbours and rule what is theirs. The maggot of domination has eaten into his brain. And if he gained his end – which he will not do – would he be any happier? I do not think so, Monsieur. If I am wrong, and he would, then he must be put to death. Such men endanger the well-being of other folk.”

We were back at Gracedieu that evening at half-past six.

Carson’s report afforded us very great pleasure.

“We closed the house at one, sir – shut all the ground floor shutters: we thought it best. And sharp at two I went down to open the gates. There were forty waiting there, and I think we had more than five hundred during the afternoon. The peasants came in, as well as the visitors; but every one had put on his Sunday best. They were all of them most respectful: I’m sure not a flower was picked. They could teach us something there. They left no litter at all, and the Mayor had ordered ‘No smoking’, so they threw down their cigarettes before they entered the drive. No one set foot on the lawn, but I think they liked the fountain best of all. Kept on coming back to that. And the ladies loved the grotto; but the men just raved about the terrace – as well they might. A lot of the Besse people came. Ulysse was there, and Olim, and Pernot and Madame Pernot and both the Mayors. Therèse and Eugène – I’ve never seen them so pleased, and every one was laughing and shaking hands. And nobody went away without saying goodbye, and every one asked us to thank you for letting them come. The Mayors stayed on, as arranged, and we took them over the house. They were very pleased about that, and I can’t begin to tell you the things they said. But Therèse will do that, Madam.”

Remembering what Joseph had told us, that night we opened all shutters and turned on every light. Then Jill and Jonah and I drove round through Lally and on to the Nareth road.

The highway was like a fair. All Lally was out, and car after car, which was passing, had come to rest. And when I saw Gracedieu lit up, I was not surprised. Two crow’s miles away, above and beyond the gulf which lay between, a fairy castle seemed to be hung in the air. I could not believe that we lived there. It was too good to be true.

Jonah left for London the following night.

From that time on, he spoke with us three times a week; but he could not say all that he would on the telephone.

Besse held its
fête-champêtre
on August the sixth. (This is a pretty custom. The French peasant works very hard, but on one day in every year his village keeps holiday. It is always a summer day, when men and girls can dance on the village green. And all make merry that day, from dawn to dusk. Many peasants wear ‘national dress’: this is not made today, but is handed from mother to daughter and father to son.) At nine o’clock that day representatives came to ask us to come to the
fête
. They brought two bouquets of flowers for Daphne and Jill. We asked them on to the terrace, and there the fiddlers struck up, while the others danced. In their black and white and scarlet, they made the bravest show. And that afternoon, of course, we attended the
fête
.

That evening brought a letter from Jonah.

August 4th.

DEAR BOY,

It won’t be long now. Yesterday one of our ‘statesmen’ declared, ‘War today is not only not inevitable but is unlikely. The Government have good reason for saying that.’ Both statements are false. Roderick would like you to do liaison in France. That means that you will go out with the first lot they send. I’m afraid it’s the best we can do. For every reason, Berry must stay where he is, as must Daphne and Jill. Roderick insists upon that, and I know he’s right. For God’s sake, ram this home. A man is as old as he feels, till it comes to the test. He’d that go of bronchitis in London, and after that show in the mountains he was in bed for two days. He might, perhaps, get a job of filling up forms; but a close-up of things without any active job would send him out of his mind. I sometimes think that everyone here is insane. They are obsessed with the idea that the German people is a bullock propelled by a Nazi goad. Bullock? Gorilla. Goad? A dangling gobbet of human flesh. One day, perhaps they will learn: but Baldwin’s Soothing Syrup has got a hell of a grip. My work may lie here for the present. Thousands of German spies are being comforted here as refugees. What a mercy White Ladies is safe! If we had tried to hang on, the place would have gone. Conceive evacuees in those time-honoured rooms. But now it is safe – except, of course, from the air. I’ll let you know when to leave, but I think I should send your big baggage down to the cloak-room at Pau. If I had to bet, I’d say the end of August. But nothing can stop it this time. I’ll lay five million pounds that before September is old, we shall be at war.

Yours ever,

JONAH.

I had a tussle with Berry, but in the end he gave way. I think that he wrote to Roderick and I think that Roderick wrote back. And Roderick was no traitor. He had a little girl, and she had been blind from birth. To say that he worshipped her means nothing at all. But he would have slain that child, if that would have profited England. And that, without hesitation. So when Roderick said that Berry and Jill and Daphne must stay where they were…

Three gorgeous weeks went by, and all of us worked in the garden all day long. Manual labour, we found, relieved the mind. And at night we went out with the van, and gave our show.

And then, on the last day of August, Jonah talked to Daphne, and then asked to speak to me.

“That you, Jonah?” I said.

“It is. I should leave tomorrow. I don’t like the look of things, and you don’t want to get stuck.”

“Without fail,” said I, for Daphne was by my side.

Carson, of course, was with Jonah, and I had ordered a taxi for eight o’clock. That would give me plenty of time. My train did not leave Pau until ten that night.

I was in my bedroom at five, frowning upon the suitcases, which had already been packed, and wondering how to make room for three or four books, when the door was whipped open and shut, and there was Jill standing against it, with a stricken look in her eyes.

“Daphne’s told me,” she breathed. “First Jonah, and now you, Boy. And I thought – I believed we were going to be happy here.”

“So we are, sweetheart.” I put my arm about her, drew her into a chair and then kneeled down by her side. “These things happen, you know. But we’re going to finish it this time. And then, for the rest of our lives—”

“I’ve told myself all that, but it doesn’t help. We went from five to six, and from six to nine. And then we came back to six, and then to five. But we were the original five, and that tempered the wind. And the old, old days came back, as if they’d been waiting for us. And now…”

Her great, grey eyes were brimming, and she put up an arm, like a child, to hide her tears.

As I had done since she was two, I picked her up in my arms and held her close.

Then I told her the fairy-tale which she and I had shared for so many years, the tale I had always told her whenever she cried.

The absurdity of the position made her smile. Jill looked twenty-five, but she was older than that.

She wiped her tears away, and laid her cheek against mine.

“See how I need you,” she said. “That’s always been our secret.”

Feeling rather as robbers feel—

“I can’t help it,” I said wildly. “Sacrilegist or no, when I come back on leave, will you marry me, Jill beloved, my blessed queen?”

She sat up at that. Then she took my head in her hands.

“Of course. I’d love to. I’ve been longing for you to say that for more than a year. What’s a sacrilegist?”

Then her arms went round my neck, and I kissed her beautiful lips…

As we were going downstairs—

“I don’t know how to tell them,” I said.

“You silly darling,” said Jill.

She danced before me into the library.

“We’re going to have a spare room,” she cried. “Boy’s going to share mine.”

We were married very quietly in Pau, on New Years’ Eve. Jonah was my best man and Berry gave Jill away. Our honeymoon was spent at Gracedieu. The great thing was we were all together again. After five glorious days, Jonah and I withdrew, he to an unknown destination and I to the north of France. We were to do our best to get leave again in July – July, 1940. Even Roderick, for all his wisdom, never foresaw that horror – the fall of France.

Berry wrote to me from Oporto.

I was lying in Hertfordshire, with a splintered knee.

June 25th, 1940.

DEAR BOY,

Sic transit gloria mundi. White Ladies, and now Gracedieu. I suppose one survives these things. We are all three safe and well – in body, if not in mind. Myself, I still feel dazed, and Daphne is very quiet. Your darling keeps us going, but then she is not of this world.

Our departure was of the stuff of which nightmares are made. Eugène cursing his country and clinging to Daphne’s knees. Therèse – a Medusa in tears. The poor people swarming about us, catching and kissing our hands and imploring us not to go. Of that, there was no question; but the mayor sent up a message by dead of night. ‘Leave immediately, Monsieur. I know what I know. Your names are high on the list. You have done too much good.’ That drive to the frontier! Jill drove and I sat beside her, pistol in hand. I never knew what a bend in the road would bring forth. The girls stood up very well to a very exacting time. One goes on somehow, but I am too old for these things. France. Sixty million decent souls betrayed by a handful of maggots – Judases all. Foch must be whirling round and round in his grave. There’s a special hell for traitors – so Dante says. If I get nothing better, let me be a stoker there. Those poor, bewildered peasants, with the tears running down their cheeks. ‘Nous avons été vendus, Madame.’ I think that terrible cry will always ring in my ears.

We have next to nothing with us. There was no room and no time. But Portugal is kindness itself, from bottom to top.

Your cable has just arrived, in reply to mine.

Rest assured, I will do as you say – as Roderick says.

‘Daphne and Jill are not to return to England.’ Well and good. Yet we are not to stay here for more than two or three months. I see the wisdom of that, for, if anything were to happen, we shouldn’t have time to get out. Whither, then ? I wish to God you’d get well and come out and take my place. Jill is mad to be with you, but makes an obedient wife. I tell her you will be invalided and then will come to her. I see I’ve never said how sorry I am. The knee, too. It must have been damned painful. That strip of coast was always unhealthy for you. Remember when the cab-horse kicked you, years ago, at Boulogne?

Well, there we are. I never thought to write a letter like this. But then I never thought to see a lot that I’ve seen and do a lot that I’ve done in the last eight days. Days? Years. The last week seems like a life-time, and that’s the truth.

We shall win, of course. You can’t weight the English out. But the fall of France will add two years to the war. More, if Japan comes in. It’s dreadful to stand aside, but if they won’t use me in England, it’s better to be away. A close-up with my hands in my pockets would send me mad. I will not go to America, come what may. But if I can contrive to get East, I might pick up something there. But I won’t leave Daphne and Jill, unless and until you come.

I find it hard to look at things as I should. The personal element is obtrusive. After all, we did build Gracedieu, to be our home. And, wonderful as the girls were, there was a look in their eyes which I shall never forget. The last thing Jill did was to turn the fountain off. ‘Put out the light, and then put out the light.’ And yet I have a feeling that we shall see it again…and that one day we shall stand upon the terrace and once more lift up our eyes unto the hills.

Well, here we go.

BERRY.