Cluny Brown (21 page)

“I mean, at dog-shows, you meet all the dog people, I suppose at folk-dance competitions you meet all the folk-dancers. If you'll excuse me,” said Cluny courteously, “I ought to get on with the beds.”

There are certain advantages about being a parlour-maid: one can always break off a conversation without impoliteness. Cluny loped back to the house, and entering by the laundry (her usual inconspicuous route) found Hilda sorting the wash. Cluny stopped and regarded her with a speculative eye.

“Ever done any folk-dancing, Hilda?”

“Get on with'ee!”

Cluny leaned up against the door-jamb and swung an imaginary foot-rule.

“You're just the type, Hilda. You could enter for the County Competitions. Miss Duff-Graham wants to groom you for stardom on your afternoon off.”

II

It was sad that Cynthia's kind thought should have been so ungratefully received, but such disappointments frequently and inexplicably came her way. Her Headmistress's final report described her as an unusally wholesome influence, well fitted to lead others; but since those happy sixth-form days Cynthia had found fewer and fewer followers. Even as a wholesome influence she was no longer a
succès fou
. Her presence at Friars Carmel squared the young people's party, enabled them, or rather drove them, to play tennis, brightened them up with innocent jokes; yet the tempers of Andrew and the Professor at least seemed suddenly to deteriorate. Betty's did not—and for a cognate reason. She had reached a point in her relations with the two men where a chaperon was very useful. Even her wit and experience were finding difficulty in keeping the amorous Professor at bay, in keeping him so to speak below boiling-point; while Andrew began to watch her necessary manœuvres with an increasingly sardonic eye. Cynthia's heartiness, by making all but the loudest conversation impossible, afforded a respite; so Betty played up to her with great schoolgirlishness, encouraged her to spend as much time as possible at Friars Carmel, and never left her side. This annoyed Andrew and Belinski equally, and they formed a temporary disgruntled alliance to boycott all outdoor sports.

“The beastly slackers!” cried Cynthia humorously.

She didn't really mind their defection, so long as she had Betty; but now and then the recollection that Mr. Belinski wrote books, that he was a distinguished person, impelled her to pursue him with more intellectual attentions. She asked him where he got his ideas, and Mr. Belinski told her that he cribbed them, adding, in answer to her look of dismay, that all authors did the same. This confirmed Cynthia in her belief that highbrows were an unsporting lot, but did not put an end to her investigations. She asked whether he did not get a terrific kick out of seeing his writings in print, and Mr. Belinski, possibly misunderstanding the colloquialism, replied that there were many things he would like to give a terrific kick to, but books were not one of them.

“The girl's a half-wit,” said Andrew, only just lowering his voice. He and Betty were at one end of the billiard table, playing, while the intellectual conversation carried on under the score-board at the other. They were, as usual, all together. A wet afternoon—it was raining steadily—merely herded them indoors.

“She's very nice really,” murmured Betty.

“I suppose she's another friend you're going to keep?”

“I expect so.”

Andrew glanced up. Betty had spoken in an oddly matter-of-fact tone; he saw her now look at Cynthia consideringly, as though wondering what could be done about the girl, as though it were a matter of course that she, Betty, should be concerned. It was a look such as Andrew had often seen his mother give the Colonel, particularly in the days when Cynthia was a small girl and there was trouble with governesses: a neighbourly look.…

“She ought never,” said Betty thoughtfully, “to wear that pale blue.”

There was absolutely no connection; but Andrew had a sudden impulse to tell Betty he was going to join the Air Force. He nearly did so; only at that moment Belinski evidently said something altogether outrageous, Cynthia jumped up with a scarlet face, and all at once they were in the thick of a silly quarrel.

“I'm going home,” said Cynthia loudly. “I'm sorry, Andrew, but I'm going home.”

“Don't be a nitwit,” said Andrew. “What's the matter?”

“The Professor's being perfectly beastly.” She turned to glare at Belinski, who with an exasperated and righteous air promptly made matters worse.

“All I said was that the extreme fertility of rabbits—”

“Shut up!” cried Cynthia.

“—probably explained their attraction—”

Betty, who was still holding her billiard-cue, reached forward with it and, very lightly, rapped Belinski over the knuckles.

“Apologize to Cynthia at once.”

It was a repetition of the scene by the brook, but this time no friendly, half-humorous glance passed between them. Belinski's eyes became bright and intent; he slid his hand up the cue till it met Betty's, then swiftly bent and kissed it.

“I kiss the rod!” he proclaimed, almost hilariously. “I apologize to Miss Duff-Graham! I am a rude and ignorant foreigner! Miss Duff-Graham, unless you forgive me, I commit suicide in Lady Carmel's duck pond!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake forgive him,” said Andrew.

“But I'm
not
thwarted,” protested Cynthia sulkily.

“Forgive him all the same,” advised Betty. “It's nearly tea.”

By the time Syrett arrived to confirm this, peace had been more or less restored; they went downstairs all on speaking terms, and Mr. Belinski at least in unsuitably high spirits.

III

Such was the result of a wet afternoon for Andrew and Betty, Belinski and Cynthia Duff-Graham; to Cluny Brown the rain was kinder. For it was Wednesday, her afternoon off, and she splashed along the Carmel road happy in the prospect of tea at the Wilson home—and happier still when, at the foot of the Gorge, she saw Titus Wilson coming through the rain to meet her.

Chapter 21

I

They turned and began to walk fast, the soft rain blowing in their faces, misting Mr. Wilson's spectacles so that every now and then he had to take them off and wipe them. Cluny was surprised at the difference it made: without glasses the chemist looked years younger; striding along with his shoulders back and his head up—for Mr. Wilson did not bend even to the elements—he appeared to her a brave, almost a romantic figure. Cluny herself wore her new scarlet snood, but it was concealed beneath an oilskin hood of the kind optimistically known as “pixie,” but which looked more like a sponge-bag, and until this was removed she did not want her appearance noticed. They marched along almost in silence, and almost in step, for Cluny's long legs gave her a man's stride; without Roddy to watch and whistle to she looked neither to right nor left, but kept her eyes steadily on the wet road.

“You're a good walker,” said Mr. Wilson approvingly.

“I like it,” said Cluny.

“It's a healthy and cheap relaxation. With congenial company I ask for nothing better.”

“Nor do I,” said Cluny.

They reached the village and the shop, and Mr. Wilson let them in with his key. After the freshness outside the faintly antiseptic air smelt cold and shut-up, but as soon as Mr. Wilson opened the farther door warmth rushed out and enfolded them like a blanket. Mrs. Wilson always kept a good fire. She was sitting close by the hearth, still in her shawl, and as once before, when Cluny came in, she poked out her little brown hand.

This time Cluny took it. It felt hard and knobbly—not a rabbit's paw after all, but a bit of gnarled old wood.

“We're back to tea, Mother,” said Mr. Wilson loudly. “Have you got anything for us?”

The question was purely rhetorical: there was the table ready spread, with buns and splits, butter and jam and cream; and the kettle hissed on the hob. To Cluny's mood there was a sort of magic about this; you never saw any one doing anything at the Wilsons', yet everything was done. She asked curiously:—

“Who gets it all ready? Who looks after you?”

“Mrs. Brewer,” said the chemist. “A very decent body.”

The old lady uttered a loud snort. Her son took no notice, so Cluny didn't either.

“Hilda's a Brewer,” she remarked.

“This is her auntie. They're all Brewers round these parts—Brewers or Beers.”

“And proper villains they be,” interjected Mrs. Wilson.
“I
know.…”

“Now, Mother!”

The old lady snorted again, and returned to silence. Cluny rather wondered, as she took off her mackintosh, why Mrs. Wilson had wished to return to Devonshire society. Then she took off her hood and forgot everything else but what she was wearing underneath it.

“I'll hang those in the entry,” said Mr. Wilson.

He took the damp garments out of her hands and disposed of them. He came back and made tea. He pulled out chairs round the table and told Cluny to sit down. Mrs. Wilson did not move, but had things handed to her.

“It's on an afternoon like this,” observed Mr. Wilson, “that one enjoys one's own fireside. I took an epicurean pleasure coming to meet you through the wet, knowing there'd be this waiting for us.”

“It's all right if you've got a good mackintosh,” said Cluny. “And something on your head.”

“A raincoat's a very indispensable garment, and not to be economized on. Is Mrs. Maile coughing still?”

“Not much,” said Cluny. “Do you like my snood?”

The chemist examined her carefully. He was a very honest man.

“It makes you look considerably neater.”

“Yes, doesn't it?” agreed Cluny eagerly. She should have left it at that, but she was always too easily encouraged. “And don't you like the bow?”

“Since you mention it, I should have thought you were too old for hair-ribbons,” said Mr. Wilson.

Cluny fell silent. It was her fault, she admitted it: she should have been content with looking intelligent. And neat. That was something. Glancing away from Mr. Wilson, she met the small brown eye of his mother, and surprised there a most unexpected expression: the old lady looked extremely amused. But she said nothing. She had retreated too far into the narrow world of age—in her case bounded by food, warmth, and the villainy of her neighbours—to be bothered with the younger generation. She munched at her creamy bun, eating not very tidily, while Mr. Wilson and Cluny in equal silence finished their tea. There was a constraint between them; the chemist was aware of it, and every now and then gave Cluny an enquiring look, which she would not return. When they finished, however, he fetched a tray and between them they carried the tea-things out to a very neat kitchen, and in that domestic seclusion Mr. Wilson said suddenly:—

“As you will have learnt by now, I'm no flatterer.”

“No,” said Cluny.

“I shouldn't have made that remark about your hair-ribbon. It's very displeasing to a woman to be told she's trying to look younger than her age.”

“I am twenty,” admitted Cluny.

“It's just,” persisted Mr. Wilson, “that I happen to have conservative tastes. I dare say when I get used to it I'll like it very well.”

“I don't want you to get used to it if it doesn't suit me. Oh, dear, I wish I'd never bought it!”

“Did it cost a great deal?”

“No,” said Cluny. It had cost half a crown, but she wasn't going to say so, because she was sure he would think it too much. What a failure it had been! Abused by Mrs. Maile and Syrett, jeered at by the Professor—When Cluny remembered the Professor, her cheeks burned again. “I'm silly,” she said, with genuine grief. “I try not to be, but I can't help it …”

Mr. Wilson opened his mouth to observe that most young women were silly at her age, but for once had the sense to keep quiet. Instead he did what was for him a really imaginative thing: he raised his hands and carefully straightened the scarlet bow, pulling it out, crimping it, so that it set jauntily on Cluny's head.

“There!” he told her. “Foolish or not, you look very spruce. Now we'll get that book I spoke of, and I'll show you a map of this very valley.”

It was an odd afternoon altogether. Cluny's spirits were rising and falling like a barometer in a thunderstorm, and she was glad to sit down at the table and let Mr. Wilson explain his maps. He was exceptionally kind and patient; the old lady slept; gradually peace returned. It deepened and enclosed them; Cluny's first impression of that little room came back stronger than ever. How cosy it was, how warm and safe! How quietly time went between those four bright walls! It was like being inside a warm gay box.…

“And here,” said Mr. Wilson, “is Exeter, where I was born.”

Cluny looked earnestly at the interesting spot, and wondered what he had been like as a little boy. She couldn't imagine him tousled and bare-kneed; he must always have been a serious child, with a precocious eye to scholarships. A steady child, as he was now a steady man. Cluny meditated on this quality of steadiness for some minutes: the lack of it in herself had been so frequently deplored, by Mr. Porritt and the Trumpers, that she had always realized its importance; now, for the first time, she saw its attraction. To be steady was also to be at ease—unswayed by rival passions, undistracted by bypaths, indifferent to the world's weather.…

Mr. Wilson folded one map and opened another. They were now in Cornwall. The hands of the clock moved to five, to half past, to six. The room grew hotter. Mrs. Wilson still slept. Cluny began to look about a little, and shift her feet under the table; unused to sitting still so long, she began to feel both restless and sleepy. But she controlled herself until the last map was put aside and Mr. Wilson looked up at her with a smile.

“This has been a quiet holiday for you,” he said, “but I hope not a dull one.”