Berry Scene Page 3

  “We’ll love to.”

  “I’m not so sure: but I’m selfish. And you and Berry and Boy will do me good.” The lady raised her voice. “Drive on, Weston.”

  We cried our farewells, as the carriage moved leisurely on, and the greys, impatient for their stable, snatched at their bits.

  One more encounter we had that Midsummer Day, and that was with General Stukely – a man among men.

  The four-wheeled dog-cart was still, drawn up by a gap in the hedgerow on Steeple Ridge. From his seat beside his coachman, the General was viewing the acres which had stood in the name of Stukely for more than three hundred years. And soon another would claim them, for he was ninety-two and the last of his line.

  It was not a great estate – less than a hundred acres, when all was in: but love and pride had made it a specimen piece. There was the rose-red manor, neighboured by timber so lovely it seemed unreal. Horses were grazing in a paddock, and cows were standing, musing, under a parcel of elms. The purest woodland embraced the pretty picture – oak and beech and chestnut, in splendid heart: and here, in the foreground, a magnificent crop of oats was spreading an apron of promise, to fill a farmer’s eye.

  As we drew alongside the dog-cart—

  “Good evening, General,” cried Daphne.

  “Good evening, my dear. You look so fresh and so eager, you might be going to market, instead of coming back.”

  “You always say nice things to me, General.”

  “An old man’s privilege, Daphne – one of the many we have. Boy, you’ve your father’s style – and there’s a compliment.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I pointed with my whip to the oats. “You maintain the standard, General, which the Manor has always set.”

  “They look very well, don’t they? The soil is good, you know, and I do my best.” He returned to my sister. “And how is Berry, my dear?”

  “Very well, thank you. He took the dog-cart today. We’ve been to the Deanery to lunch.”

  “You keep good company, Daphne. The Dean and his lady adorn the office he holds. Will you come and take tea at the Manor one of these days?”

  “May we come next Friday, General?”

  “It will give me great pleasure, my dear. Whom may I ask to meet you?”

  “Mayn’t we come alone?” said my sister. “And then we can over-eat and I can pour out the tea.”

  The General smiled.

  “You give the right answers, Daphne. You always did. And your lady mother before you, bless her soul. And now I’ll delay you no longer. White Ladies should have its mistress before the sun goes down. Goodbye, my dear. My kind regards to Berry. And I shall look for your coming on Friday next.”

  We left him there, by the edge of his fair demesne, and five minutes later we crossed the verge of the forest to which White Ladies belongs.

  Here Nature came into her own.

  The sun was low and was lacing the beauty about us with golden light. Majestic oaks rose from a quilt of bracken that might have been cloth of gold: birches laid heads together, so that their lovely tresses made up one golden shower: a watch of firs became a gleaming cohort: and a glorious company of beeches, their shapely boles flood-lit with golden magic – an order of pillars holding the shadows up, spoke to enchanted forests and all the lovely lore of fairy-tales.

  So, for the last four miles, our progress was royal – the dark-blue phaeton skimming the yellow roads, and the constant flicker of the sunshine caparisoning the equipage, now badging Order’s shoulder, now making the panels flash, now leaping up from the splash-board, to magnify the beauty for which my sister was known.

  Ears pricked to catch a whisper, obedient to some presence we could not feel, the greys sped through the forest – a model pair. When a gypsy rose out of some bushes, to brandish a broom, they took no notice at all: the two might have been bewitched – I think they were.

  So we came back to White Ladies in the evening of Midsummer Day.

  Three hours had gone by, and a precious silence reigned in the library.

  Daphne was reading a novel, Berry was at his table and I was nodding over The Morning Post.

  “How are your arms?” said Berry.

  “Not too good,” said I.

  “You wait till tomorrow,” said Berry. “You won’t be able to dress.”

  Daphne put out a hand and touched my hair.

  “I don’t think I thanked you, darling, for saving my neck.”

  “Don’t put it too high,” I said. “I chose the lesser evil and brought it off. If Bellman Lane had been blocked…”

  “D’you mind not discussing it?” said Berry. “It sends the b-blood to my head. Oh, and what do you do with these pens? Clean your nose – nails with them?”

  “You filthy brute,” said his wife.

  “Well, the nibs are done in,” said Berry: “and that, as the obvious result of having been used for some purpose other than that for which they were bought and sold. Where’s your typewriter?”

  “No, you don’t,” said I. “That cost me twenty-five pounds. Where’s your fountain-pen?”

  Berry made no reply.

  After a moment Daphne raised her voice.

  “Why don’t you use it, darling? The new one you had sent down and that wrote so well?”

  Berry swung round.

  “Look here,” he said. “I don’t want that pen mentioned. I don’t want any reference, direct or indirect, veiled or manifest, made in my hearing to what are called fountain-pens. ‘Fountain-pens.’ Sounds so romantic, doesn’t it? Suggestive of nymphs and groves and shepherds’ pipes. No one, of course, would buy them, if they were called pocket-skunks.”

  “What ever d’you mean?” said his wife.

  Berry expired. Then—

  “Deluded,” he said, “by a pictorial advertisement, as, of course, I was meant to be – as have been thousands of other innocent lieges of His Majesty, I wrote for a fountain-pen, enclosing a cheque in favour of a firm which, I have every reason to hope and, indeed, expect, will shortly be eaten of worms. According to the prospectus, the implement was super-fine. It could neither leak nor blot: it could be replenished in the dark: it liked being dropped and carried upside down: I’m not sure it couldn’t spell – according to the prospectus. Best of all, it was ‘of vest-pocket size’.” He paused to cover his eyes. “When I think that I filled the swine – with the finest blue-black ink… Oh, it wrote all right. The words slid out of its mouth. I wrote three letters in triumph. Then I put it into my pocket and lay down upon the sofa, to take a short nap. That was on Sunday last, at three o’clock.”

  “My God,” said Daphne. “Not your new, grey suit?”

  “My new, grey suit,” said Berry, between his teeth. “The tares were sown, while I slept. Waistcoat, coat and shirt utterly and completely destroyed. Soaked, steeped and saturated with the finest blue-black ink.” He shrugged his shoulders. “The thing was undoubtedly capacious – the stain on the coat must be quite six inches by four. And I never knew it, till I saw myself in a glass. Went to wash my hands, and, as I was turning away, I saw this – this devastation outlined upon my trunk. In shape, it was not unlike the Iberian Peninsular.

  “At first I thought it was a shadow – I couldn’t believe it was true. As in a dream, 1 touched it… And then, in one hideous flash, I saw the pit that had been digged, into which I had paid to jump. Those filthy, black-gutted lepers had sworn that it couldn’t leak. But they never swore it couldn’t break… Screaming with agony, I plucked first one half and then the other out of the sodden pouch which, half an hour before, had been an elegant pocket in a gentleman’s vest.

  “Well, there you are. Adding things up, the, er, souvenir has proved expensive. The pen was twelve shillings, and the suit–’

  “You must have lain on it,” said Daphne.

  “I never lay on it,” screamed Berry. “I never subjected it to any strain, stress, tax, pressure or other kind of violence. The swine had no shadow of excuse. I put it into my po
cket, as I was incited to do. It had every comfort and convenience – and every opportunity to do its filthy work. I tell you, it was a snare – a treacherous snare, set by verminous blackguards for honest men. And now what about a restorative? Or would that be out of place?”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, darling. Besides, I liked that suit. By the way, have you written to Jonah?”

  “I have. I’ve told him to cancel the car and leave the country.”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Daphne. “We’ve got to have the thing now. Besides, I’m all excited.”

  As Berry passed the sofa, he laid his manuscript in my sister’s lap.

  “Let the blots,” he said, “speak to my emotion. Few could compose such periods: fewer still could cover two pages with a nib which resembled a miniature grappling-iron. Not that your brother is not to dredge his no-nails; but what’s his hoof-pick done?”

  I read the letter over my sister’s shoulder.

  Dear Brother,

  Your letter caused me much pain. Indeed, for some hours after its perusal I was afflicted with griping of the guts, a malady which, if we may believe the ancient registers, was prevalent in the seventeenth century. But, then, look at their habits.

  It was, of course, distinctly understood that you were to take no action beyond the spending of certain moneys upon the intoxication of some of your less reputable friends. You were then to worm out of them the secrets of the motor-car trade: I think you called it ‘spilling the beans’ – a coarse and vulgar metaphor, the origin of which I am glad to find obscure. Instead, if I read your letter aright, you have gone so far as to engage or hire a self-propelled vehicle, together with its conductor, for the space of one calendar month.

  As I read those last words again, a host of unanswerable questions, like bulls of Bashan, gape upon me with their mouths. Where is the swine to be put? Don’t say ‘In a coach-house’, for the greys might hear you. I mean, they’re not mad about cars. And what about liability? Supposing some poultry misjudge their distance, or an assertive heifer decides to sit on her horns to spite her base. Oh, and what do we do if one of the tires is punctured? Suck the wound?

  It is within your knowledge that inconsideration is my portion and disregard my cross. It might have been thought that, in these circumstances, a near relative would have hesitated further to offend one whose qualities are so clearly enumerated by the Beatitudes. But of such is my present incarnation. Oh, for the good old days when I was Artaxerxes’ favourite wife! The fun we used to have in the sherbert slimming-pool! And how our husband laughed when we put a scorpion into the Chamberlain’s slacks. Jujube, he used to call me. Ah, well…

  Till Monday, then.

  I yearn upon you with my large intestine.

  Berry

  “You might,” said Daphne, “have told him what the Dean said.”

  “My sweet,” said Berry, “if he does these things in the green-room, what will he do in the flies? If be knew what the Dean had said, he’d order a portable garage and two more cars.”

  Monday came at last, and my cousin with it.

  Precisely at a quarter to one, a long, low, open car came to rest in the drive. At least, it seemed low then. It was blue and was built to take seven – and so it did. The back seat was extremely comfortable. The tonneau was very roomy. This was as well, for my cousin had brought twelve tires and fifteen tubes – on sale or return. The chauffeur was a pleasant-faced man, whose name was Fitch.

  While Jonah expounded its virtues, we moved about the vehicle, marking its points.

  “It’s very nice-looking,” said Daphne. “How fast can it go?”

  “Just over fifty,” said Jonah. “But thirty-five is her pace: she’s smoothest then.”

  “What about twenty?” said Berry.

  “She won’t do twenty in top. At twenty-two or three you have to change down.”

  “Forgive my ignorance,” said Berry, “but which of the gears do you most often employ?”

  Jonah shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, the great idea,” he said, “is to keep her in top. If you see a hill coming, you rush it – if you possibly can.”

  “I see,” said Berry. “In other words, one’s main object is to maintain an unlawful speed – to do anything rather than sink to the level prescribed by law.”

  “That’s what it amounts to,” said Jonah. “But twenty-five is nothing. After a mile or two you seem to be crawling along.”

  “I see,” said Berry thoughtfully. “Well, before we go out, we’d better inquire which way the Colonel’s gone. My learned brother, Colonel Buckshot. I mean, I’m sitting on Thursday:

  and if on Wednesday we met him, when we were rushing a hill…”

  “He’s got to get used to it,” said Jonah.

  “Yes, I wasn’t thinking of him,” said Berry. “If I’m to violate the law one day and administer it the next, I’d just as soon not ram this elegant inconsistency down the Colonel’s throat. It’s just possible it might stick in his gullet. Oh, and talk about not letting your right hand know what your left hand doeth…”

  We handed Fitch over to Peters and went to lunch.

  Two days later we put the car to the test. In a word, we went out for the day – to Sacradown and back. This was a great adventure, for Sacradown was seventy miles away.

  The day was brilliant, and distance faded into a haze of heat. Fleeting the well-known ways was an enchanting exercise. Jonah was driving, with Fitch in the seat by his side. Behind them, Daphne, Berry and I sat in excited silence, tasting the joy of speed.

  It was not quite ten o’clock and we were twelve miles from White Ladies, when one of the hind tires burst.

  Jonah steadied the car and brought her, going short, to the side of the road.

  For a moment nobody spoke.

  Then—

  “I suppose the thing’s broken,” said Berry. “I thought it was too good to be true. Oh, and where’s the Red Cross outfit? I’ve slipped my spinal cord.”

  The chauffeur left his seat and my sister opened her eyes.

  “Does it often do this?” she said.

  Jonah spoke over his shoulder.

  “The day is hot,” he said, “and although you won’t believe it, we were doing fifty-one. Under such conditions tires sometimes lose their temper.”

  “The wages of sin,” said Berry. He looked round comfortably. “At least, it’s a pleasant spot, and I’m ripe for a nap. I didn’t have a good night. Daphne had eaten something, and—”

  “You wicked liar,” said his wife.

  “D’you mean to say I dreamed it? It was remarkably vivid. Never mind. Can repairs be effected? Or must you walk back to Cleric and hire an equipage? I shouldn’t call at the Grange. Its occupant might be unresponsive.”

  (Colonel Buckshot lived at the Grange.)

  “Nothing doing,” said Jonah, alighting. “In the first place, the tools we need are beneath your seat; in the second, your services will be required.”

  “In what way?” said Berry, staring.

  “As a relief,” said I. “Changing a tire is exhausting.”

  Berry moistened his lips.

  “I’d better not,” he said. “I – I might break something.”

  “We’ll risk that,” said Jonah. “And I don’t think you’ll break the pump.”

  With an awful look, Berry followed my sister out of the car, to take his seat on the bank by the side of the road…

  The wheels were not detachable, and the jack was much less efficient than those of today. To place the jack was very difficult: to upset it, when placed, was very easy: to operate it was just possible. And tires could be most refractory. By the time the new cover was on, Jonah and Fitch and I were ready to rest.

  Jonah looked at Berry and wrung the sweat from his brow.

  “You shall inflate it,” he said. “That’ll give us a chance to cool down.”

  With that, he and I sat down by my sister’s side.

  Fitch attached the pump, show
ed Berry the action required and then moved round the car, to open the bonnet upon the opposite side.

  With starting eyes, Berry took off his coat and laid hold of the pump…

  After two minutes, he took off his collar and tie.

  After five minutes he felt the tire, laid the pump carefully down, took his seat on the step and closed his eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” said Jonah.

  “The pump’s not working,” said Berry. “I’m damned near killing myself, but inflation is not taking place.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Jonah. “Another quarter of an hour and you’ll see what I mean.”

  “From on high, perhaps,” said Berry. “I shan’t be alive. No man born of woman—”

  Here Fitch reappeared, to pick up the pump.

  After five more minutes, Berry again took charge.

  “You see?” said Jonah.

  Berry looked round.

  “If I told you what I saw,” he said, “you’d be afraid to die.”

  After fifty strokes, he once again felt the tire.

  “I’d better not do it any more,” he said. “We don’t want to burst this one.”

  “Another hundred,” said I, “and then I’ll go on.”

  In a loud voice, Berry began to count…

  He had reached ‘Seventy-nine’, when I saw a dog-cart approaching, taking the way we had come. But Berry’s back was towards it. Besides, he was occupied.

  When the dog-cart was fifty yards off, I recognized the shape of Colonel Buckshot’s grey hat.

  “Ninety-four,” raved Berry: and then, with a frightful effort, Ninety-five.”

  Daphne, sitting beside me, began to shake with laughter…

  The dog-cart was very near, and the Colonel’s eyes were fast upon Berry’s back, when the latter screeched “One hundred”, dropped the pump, staggered up to the step and sat himself down with a violence that shook the car.

  Then he looked up, to meet the Colonel’s glare.

  For a moment the two regarded one another.

  Then—

  “The price of devotion,” said Berry, and wiped his throat.

  At the third attempt—