Cluny Brown (20 page)

“Oh, she wants me to be a kennel-maid,” said Cluny carelessly. “But that's not the point, what I mean is, you're right about her golden nature.”

Belinski propped himself against the draining board and looked at her attentively.

“Is this your blessing you are giving me?”

“Oh, rats,” said Cluny. “It's nothing to do with me, it's just that if I make a mistake I like to own up. She saw me with Roddy and thought maybe I'd like to be a kennel-maid, and if so she'd ask about. That's taking trouble, and shows a kind heart.”

“Her heart is not kind,” said Belinski sombrely. “It is without kindness or unkindness, like the heart of a flower.”

But Cluny, her debt paid, had no time to listen to this sort of thing.

“Swell,” said she. “You might take your can along, I've got to wait.”

V

Cluny had by this time learned to wait at table very well: her long arms worked quickly and deftly, she never so much as brushed a shoulder, she removed all plates at precisely the right moment; all she lacked was the quality of unobtrusiveness. In a way she had been far less obtrusive in her early days of fork dropping, such an accident being automatically ignored; now she was present not only in the room, but also in the consciousness of the diners. Betty Cream was still wondering why she wouldn't be a kennel-maid; Andrew could not forget her parallel between the state of Europe and the state of things below stairs; Belinski felt her benevolent eye upon his amatory progress. The elders were less affected, but it was noticeable that whereas Lady Carmel still called her Brown, Sir Henry addressed her as Cluny. Literally addressed her, for in the middle of the sweet he suddenly remembered the outstanding incident of the afternoon.

“Cluny, don't let that animal get too much for you,” ordered Sir Henry.

“No, sir,” said Cluny.

“You haven't the weight to stand up to him. How much do you weigh?”

“Nine-stone-two,” replied Cluny. “Mostly bone.”

“Well, Roddy's all of forty pound. You remember that.”

“I will,” said Cluny. “There was a dog on the railway—”

“Brown!” said Mr. Syrett sharply.

Cluny turned, and misread his expression.

“He only went round with a collecting box,” she said reassuringly; and moved back to her place.

Chapter 19

I

And what, in the meantime, of Mr. Porritt without Cluny?

Truth to tell, Mr. Porritt hardly missed her at all.

The domestic offices she used to perform for him were being adequately carried out by Mrs. Trumper's respectable woman; as for the telephone, he trusted the next-door people with the key, and when they heard the bell ringing they went in and answered it, for a very small consideration. Materially Cluny's departure had made surprisingly little difference, while the withdrawal of her personality—of her essential Cluniness, so to speak—was a relief. Not every one enjoys being constantly stimulated, and though Mr. Porritt's protective mechanism was highly developed, Cluny had kept him on the hop. Without her he could settle down into a stolid, drudging, not unhappy round that got him through the days very nicely. Young Cluny had made plumbing seem exciting: well, it wasn't. It was a serious business that took it out of a man and left him glad to get home to a plain meal and no chatter. Moreover, a burden of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders; the question of what Cluny was doing, and where, was permanently answered. “Where's your niece, Mr. Porritt?” the neighbours sometimes asked, during the first week of Cluny's absence. “She's gone into service,” replied Mr. Porritt. “She's in good service, down in Devon.”

One last trace, however, of Cluny's influence persisted: she was the origin of a new habit. Every Sunday Mr. Porritt set out for the Trumpers' an hour earlier, and went for a walk in Kensington Gardens. As the weather warmed he often sat down a bit and had a look at his paper (which he never now left in the 'bus). He usually established himself outside the Orangery, and on one of these occasions was suddenly, and to his great astonishment, addressed by a young man on the other end of the seat.

“How's Cluny Brown?” asked the young man.

Mr. Porritt looked at him suspiciously. To the best of his belief he had never seen the chap before.

“Your niece who had tea at the Ritz,” added the young man, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Mr. Porritt thought as fast as he could, and came to the conclusion that this must be some one Cluny had spoken to on the telephone and told a lot of her nonsense. That also made him a client, either actual or prospective. Overcoming his instinctive reserve, therefore, Mr. Porritt replied.

“She's gone into service. In Devon.”

“What a damned shame!” said the young man.

Client or no client, this was quite enough for Mr. Porritt; he gave the chap an angry look and withdrew behind his paper. He would have got up, only it was his seat first and he had the better right to it. However, a lady soon came along, and the chap went off with her; and it was not until they were in motion that Mr. Porritt was struck by a puzzling thought. Cluny might have talked to the young man over the phone, and told him about the Ritz; or she might even have met him at the Ritz, and told him about her uncle; but how, in either case, had the young man identified him, Mr. Porritt, as the uncle of Cluny Brown?

Mr. Porritt looked after the pair curiously; but since the lady wasn't the lady with whom he had conversed in February (though the man was the same young man) he gathered no clue.

As a matter of fact, it was largely over Cluny that the young man and the first lady had quarrelled. The name Cluny Brown stuck in his memory; he began to invent anecdotes about her, to build up a fictional character, whom he introduced, now and then, out of season. The lady grew bored with Cluny Brown, and presently found the young man rather boring too, and he never became her lover after all.

This was the sole contact made by Mr. Porritt with his niece's larger circle, for though Hilary Ames frequently had trouble with his sink, which was not kept properly clean, he never again rang up the String Street number. There was another man nearer at hand; it was only by hazard, that Sunday, that he had looked for “Plumbers” in the telephone book and a little further on found Mr. Porritt. The image of Cluny continued to haunt him, but so did the image of her uncle: Mr. Ames was at bottom a prudent man. He took up, however, with a tall thin dancing-teacher, rather sallow, whom no one else found particularly attractive, and by giving her a good conceit of herself so improved her style that she entered for a Rumba competition (not with Mr. Ames) and took second place.

Only once a week, on Sundays, was Cluny remembered completely. Every Sunday at dinner Mr. Trumper, or Addie, would ask, “Heard from young Cluny?”—and Mr. Porritt would say if he had, and give any trifle of news, and for a minute or two they discussed her, agreeing how wise they had all been to send her into good service. “She's fixed for life,” Mrs. Trumper used to say, complacently. “You did well by her, Arn, and I hope she's grateful.” Mr. Porritt made no direct reply: none of Cluny's letters, not even the later, calmer ones, exactly breathed gratitude.

“What a time you had, to be sure!” said Mrs. Trumper.

Mr. Porritt reflected.

“It's a rum thing,” he said slowly, “I was bothered all right, as you well know; but looking back on it now, I couldn't rightly say what the trouble was all about.…”

He looked at Trumper, who shook his head. Something disturbing, something unaccountable, had put them all into a state; no more than his brother-in-law could he now lay his finger on it. Young Cluny had been spoken to in the street, she had gone gadding a bit on her own, there was some fuss about a job she took on, which Porritt never rightly explained; but all these incidents, now that Cluny's person was removed to Devonshire, had dwindled into the commonplace.

“She was a good lass,” pronounced Mr. Trumper.

It was kindly said; but if that was all he could say of Cluny Brown, her memory was wearing faint indeed.

Chapter 20

I

When Cynthia Duff-Graham received her father's telegram she had been staying nearly a month with her friend who bred Angora rabbits; and the bungalow which accommodated them, though wonderfully picturesque, had not really been designed for guests. Cynthia was therefore quite willing to be summoned home, and set out next day. It may be wondered how she was able to leave her own Blue Beverins for so long a period: the answer is Girl Guides. Miss Duff-Graham ran a small troop of Guides at Friars Carmel, its members being chiefly daughters of families employable at the Hall, and it was their privilege, while she was away, to send up a fatigue-party twice a day and a report in once a week. Cynthia considered this excellent training in responsibility and kindness to animals, as no doubt it was. But the Guides were always pleased to see her come back, and so was the Colonel, who felt bound to mitigate their labours not only with milk and buns, but also by personal encouragement. He once asked whether any of them kept rabbits at home, to which they unanimously replied, “No fear.”

In person Cynthia Duff-Graham was a stocky girl with a fine complexion; besides knowing all about rabbits she played a smashing good game of tennis. Her return brought the courts at Friars Carmel and the Hall into use again, and the young people played every day. Whoever partnered Cynthia won—even Belinski, who took both hands to a back-stroke and allowed balls to bounce twice (thus diminishing their force) before returning them. Andrew played well but carelessly, and Betty had a few good shots. Fortunately Cynthia was very sweet-tempered; she ran about exhorting and instructing like a games mistress, and offered to coach them all in turn. Betty was the only one who accepted; for Cynthia had developed the anticipated crush, and her company was less wearing on the tennis-lawn than anywhere else.

“If only we had a court marked with squares!” she lamented. “I know gardeners never have time, but couldn't Andrew and the Professor manage it?”

Betty shook her head.

“The Professor's writing a book; and Andrew's lazy.”

“All right, I'll do it myself.”

So the next morning Cynthia turned up at nine o'clock with tapes and pegs and a folding foot-rule, also the clock-golf numbers from the Hall, and half an hour later was observed from the breakfast table crawling industriously about the lawn. Sir Henry blessed his soul and demanded to know what the girl was at; Betty told him; and Lady Carmel directed that as soon as they had finished breakfast Andrew and Belinski should go out to help. “And make her get up, dear,” added Lady Carmel, privately, to Betty Cream. “I don't know what she's wearing—”

“It's a divided skirt, Lady Carmel.”

“Get her to stand up all the same, dear.”

But while Andrew and Belinski ungallantly dallied Cynthia found other company. Cluny Brown, hearing from Syrett of the goings-on, naturally slipped out to investigate. She appeared just as an end of tape jerked from its peg, and promptly ran to hold it down.

“Thanks awfully,” called Cynthia. “How many pegs have I put in that side?”

“Six,” shouted Cluny. “What are they for?”

“I'm marking the court in squares, so we can practise properly. But I'll have to wait until the grass is dryer, or the whitewash won't take.” Cynthia scrambled to her feet and approached. She of course knew who Cluny was, one of the maids, and maids were a class in which Cynthia took a special interest. “You're new here, aren't you?” she asked pleasantly. “Do you come from round about?”

“From London,” said Cluny.

“Dear me, that
is
a long way!”

Now, when Mr. Wilson said much the same thing Cluny felt pathetic; Miss Duff-Graham aroused in her a spirit of mondaine independence.

“Oh, I like to get around,” said Cluny airily. “It's a change from Paddington.”

“Paddington!” exclaimed Cynthia. “That
is
interesting. I wonder if you by any chance belonged to a girls' club there run by a friend of mine, a Miss Packett?”

“No,” said Cluny. “But I've had tea at the Ritz.”

But Cynthia Duff-Graham was too occupied with a new idea to take this in. Leaning against the tennis-post, swinging her foot-rule, she regarded Cluny with growing excitement.

“I'm sure it would have been just the thing for you,” she said. “They did folk-dancing. I've tried to start a club here—with folk-dancing—only somehow it never got started. If I tried again, would you join?”

“I can't folk-dance.”

“That doesn't matter, you're just the type,” said Cynthia vigorously. Her Guides and her Clubs had developed in her a certain rough-and-ready power of judgement: less percipient than Betty Cream, she saw no discrepancy between Cluny and her occupation, accepting her as a parlour-maid as she accepted Beer as a groom; but she did recognize in her the ability to compel other parlour-maids through the mazes of Shepherds Hey. As for Cluny, she began to feel the same slight uneasiness which used to overtake her, on the outskirts of a Salvation Army crowd, when they came round with the box.

“I'm sorry, I wouldn't have time,” she protested nervously.

“Don't you get an afternoon off?”

“Yes, but I need it.”

Cynthia repressed a sigh. That was the perpetual trouble, even when they were just the type: they hated to give up their afternoons off, even to enjoyment. It was extraordinary—and especially in a place like Friars Carmel, where there was literally nothing to do. She made another attempt.

“If we got up a really decent team, we could enter for the County Competitions. They're great sport.”

“Are they like dog-shows?” asked Cluny unexpectedly.

“Like
dog
-shows?”