Christmas Pudding and Pigeon Pie (6 page)

It was unfortunate that Paul, in writing this letter, had allowed himself to fall victim to the intoxication of his own style. Lady Bobbin, M
.F
.H., J.P., opened it together with several appeals for new hens from farmers whose old ones had been removed by Mr. Reynard. She read it over twice, found herself unfamiliar with such words as hostelry, redolent and collaboration, and handed it to her secretary, saying, ‘The poor chap’s batty, I suppose?’ The secretary, who occasionally read book reviews,
said that Paul Fotheringay was a comic writer, and would be a most unsuitable person to undertake a life of Lady Maria. She was then instructed to answer his request, as well as those of the farmers, in the negative.

Meanwhile, Paul, never doubting the success of his letter, walked on air. His fingers itched to take pen in hand, to prove once and for all to those idiotic critics that he was a serious writer; and at the same time he looked forward greatly to the perusal of Lady Maria’s journal, feeling that it would provide the rarest intellectual treat. He went out and bought himself a collected edition of her works, so that he might re-read some of his favourites – ‘The Lament of Llywark Hen’, ‘Moorish Bridal Song’, ‘On the Deathbed of Wallace’, ‘To my Brother’, etc., which he did with his usual appreciation of her genius. Altogether his outlook on life became far more cheerful and optimistic than it had been before he went to see Amabelle Fortescue.

Alas, how dashed were his hopes when the letter for which he had been so eagerly waiting was found to contain the following abrupt refusal in the third person:

Paul was stunned by this blow.

‘And then,’ he said to Amabelle, to whom he had gone immediately for consolation, ‘it is so rude and horrid, I feel terribly snubbed.’

‘From what I’ve always heard of that woman I’m not in the least surprised,’ said Amabelle. ‘I don’t want to be gov-ernessy,
darling, but I do think it was a mistake for you to write off in such a very violent hurry. It would have been more sensible to find out what sort of person she was first, and what was likely to be the best method of approach.’

‘Yes, I see that now. But I was so excited when I thought of the journal in fourteen volumes that my one idea was to get hold of it as soon as I possibly could.’

‘It’s a pity you didn’t consult me, you know. Little Bobby Bobbin (Sir Roderick) is a great buddy of mine, and I’m sure he could have fixed it for you easily. After all, the journal belongs to him, doesn’t it?’

‘You don’t think he could smuggle it out of the house for me?’

‘He’d never dare to now, it wouldn’t be safe. You see, Lady Bobbin is in a very strong position as far as he is concerned because she has every penny of the money, and he’s terrified of getting into her bad books. She was a great heiress, a Miss Swallowfield (tea), and if old Hudson Bobbin hadn’t married her the place would have gone long ago, I believe. But surely you know Bobby, don’t you? Why didn’t
you
ask him about it?’

‘D’you mean that comic child from Eton who’s always here? Of course I know him quite well, but how could I have guessed his other name was Bobbin? It’s unnatural, Bobby Bobbin. Oh, dear, I do feel wretched.’

‘Poor old boy, it is boring for you.’

‘It’s far worse than boring,’ said Paul vehemently, ‘it’s the end of my literary career. From now onwards I am condemned to the life of a social parasite. If I can’t write the life of Lady Maria I shall never set pen to paper again. She is not only my favourite poetess, but my affinity, my period, my ideal heroine. I understand her mentality, I could write the most beautiful life of her. Oh, it is too hard to bear. I tell you that since I had this idea I have thought of nothing else night and day, not even of Marcella. However, I can’t despair yet, it means too much to me.
I shall get inside Compton Bobbin by hook or by crook, even if I have to disguise myself as a housemaid to do it.’

Amabelle looked at him thoughtfully. There was nothing in the world she enjoyed so much as getting herself involved in other people’s affairs, and she was beginning to see here a good chance to indulge in this hobby.

‘Are you quite serious, Paul?’

‘Yes, Amabelle. More serious than you would believe. I honestly think I could write a first-class book on Lady Maria, and I want to do it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.’

‘Really and truly?’

‘I promise you.’

‘In that case, my dear, and especially if it’s going to cure you of that dreary little Marcella, I think I must try to help you. I’ll go down to Eton at once and call on Bobby, I expect that between us we could think out some scheme for getting you into Compton Bobbin.’

‘Oh, Amabelle, if only you could,’ said Paul, but he went away feeling depressed and not very hopeful.

The next day, at one o’clock punctually, Amabelle, dressed in pale beige furs, stepped out of her pale beige Rolls-Royce into the High Street of Eton, where she was met with noisy acclamations of delight by Sir Roderick Bobbin, Baronet, of Compton Bobbin, in the county of Gloucestershire.

‘Cad, cad, Amabelle darling! First of all you haven’t written to me once as you promised you would, and then you send me a wire only this morning to say you’re coming down. If you had let me know a tiny bit sooner I could have ordered a decent lunch, but as it is I don’t know what we shall get, something uneatable probably. Two days’ notice in future, please, my sweet!’

‘I’m sorry, duckie, I simply couldn’t. I only had today free, and I must see you about something very particular. I’m sure the luncheon will be perfect, anyway, it always is. In here?’

She followed Bobby into a little old house that was half curiosity shop, half restaurant. It was stuffed so full of antiques that every step had to be taken carefully for fear of knocking down some fragile object, while interspersed among the curios were luncheon tables covered with check cloths and arty crafty earthenware. Bobby passed these by, however, and led the way up a dark and narrow staircase, hung with Indian fabrics, to a miniature room at the top of the house, where luncheon for two was laid out in front of a lattice window. A peat fire burned in the open hearth, giving off a delicious smell. The room was cosy and comfortable in the extreme, and seemed to have the very definite atmosphere, unexpected in a shop, of belonging to one particular person. This was indeed the case. Sir Roderick (who had been born with an unerring instinct for living in the greatest available comfort, and who always seemed to know exactly how that comfort could be obtained with the least amount of trouble to himself) had, by dint of showering boyish charm upon the proprietress of the shop, appropriated this room to his own use, and the objects that were strewn about it in casual disorder belonged to him.

A guitar, that he could not play (lying beside a red leather gramophone that he could and did), a tasteful edition of
A la Recherche du Temps Perdu
, the complete works of Messrs. Ronald Firbank and Aldous Huxley, together with reproductions of two of Picasso’s better-known aquarelles, bore testimony to the fact that young Sir Roderick liked to associate himself with modern culture. The possessor of keen eyes, however, observing some well used bridge markers, the masterpieces of Wallace, and a positive heap of social weekly journals, might suspect that the child was in no real danger at present of overtaxing his mind.

Amabelle, who had had many opportunitites of drawing her own conclusions on these matters, sat down at the table and picked up an enormous bunch of orchids that lay beside
her plate. ‘Are these for me? Thank you, darling, so much.’ During the excellent luncheon that followed Bobby chattered incessantly, telling her with immense gusto the latest scandals from London as viewed at Eton, generally through the prejudiced eyes of son or brother to the person concerned.

‘By the way, Felton’s sister, the pretty one, has run away with her chauffeur – did you know?’

‘Barbara Casement? Really, darling, do be careful what you say; it sounds most unlikely to me. Are you quite certain?’

‘Oh, yes, rather. Felton and I saw them driving through Slough together the day before yesterday. We rocked with laughter, I must say.’

‘Well, people generally do drive with their chauffeurs, it’s quite usual.’

‘No, I promise it’s true. Felton says she never could resist a peaked cap.’

‘I can’t believe it – those lovely babies, she couldn’t leave them.’

‘Oh, heavens,’ said Bobby, suddenly whispering. ‘The most awful thing – I quite forgot. Felton’s people are down today and they’re certain to be lunching in the next room. You can hear every word. Gosh, that’s just about torn it.’

‘We don’t hear them, though.’

‘I know. They never speak, that’s why. But people always hear their own name, don’t they? Isn’t it too ghastly – what can we do?’

‘Pretend I’ve got a dog here called Melton.’

‘Oh, what a good idea. Lie down, Melton,’ he shouted. ‘Stop eating my bootlaces, you little devil. There, good boy, Melton – want a drinkie water?’ He made loud noises intending to imitate a dog drinking until, overcome with hysteria, he and Amabelle were forced to bury their heads in cushions to smother the sound of their giggles. Presently they ascertained from the waitress, greatly to their mutual relief, that Sir Oswald and Lady Felton and their family had left about half an hour previously.

When the bill came, Bobby said, ‘You can pay that, darling, if you’d like to. I don’t see why I shouldn’t trade on my status as a schoolboy for as long as I possibly can. All too soon I shall be the one to pay, and that will last to the end of my life, worse luck.’

‘When are you leaving Eton for good?’

‘I shall trail away clasping (we hope) my little leaving book and draped in my tiny Old Etonian tie at the end of the summer half, unless, of course, the beaks should happen to find out before then that you are my dentist, darling. Such bad teeth. But I don’t expect they will, I’m hardly ever unlucky.’

‘Is it settled what you’re going to do after that?’

‘Well, mother keeps on droning about Sandhurst, but I fully intend to go to Oxford, and I usually get my own way with the old girl in the end, you know, so I expect it will be all right.’

Presently they went for a walk. It was a beautiful day, sunny and windy; little golden leaves like small coins, earnest of a treasury to come, blew about the school yard; one of those days at Eton when Windsor Castle has all the appearance of the better type of Victorian water-colour painting, clean, clear and romantic. Specimens of the British aristocrat in embryo were to be seen on every hand running, or lounging about the place in and out of ‘change’. They were hideous, pathetic little boys for the most part, with one feature, whether nose, ears, chin, Adam’s apple or eyebrows outstripping its fellows which, having apparently forgotten how to grow, were overshadowed quite by their monstrous neighbour. They all stared hard at Amabelle, whose beauty was of the obvious, mature description that children always admire, and looked enviously at Bobby. He was considered a bit of a masher by the younger ones; his own contemporaries, although for the most part quite fond of him, merely thought him an extremely funny joke.

As they strolled among those playing-fields whose connection with the Battle of Waterloo had been cause for so much facetious comment, Amabelle said:

‘How about this holiday tutor you mentioned in your last letter – has your mother engaged one yet, d’you think?’

‘Not yet, thank goodness,’ said Bobby sulkily. ‘It is a bit hard, you know. I saw my sister, Philadelphia, last Sunday, she came over with darling Aunt Loudie, and she says that mother is still quite determined to have one who will “get me out of doors”. This out of doors idea is a perfect fetish with mamma; she quite honestly believes that there is something wrong about being under a roof unless you have to be for purposes of eating or sleeping. Last summer hols were unbelievably horrible. I was made to be out of doors from dawn till dark, and then mother and Uncle Ernest used quite often to drag me out after dinner and make me lay traps for crayfish. Cruel and boring it was.’

‘I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s why you have such a lovely complexion; you ought to be very glad you’re not like all these spotty little wretches.’

‘I know,’ said Bobby with alluring archness. ‘But you see, I was born with that, anyhow, it’s one of my natural attributes. But do say you think this tutor business is the last straw; it’s such a ghastly idea.’

‘Yes, in a way. But supposing it was somebody you liked very much yourself?’

‘My dear, have you met many tutors?’

‘Somebody you knew already – Paul Fotheringay, for instance.’

‘Of course that would be heaven. But I can’t quite imagine it happening, can you?’

Amabelle then expounded her plot.

When she had finished speaking Bobby cried in tones of high delight: ‘It’s a divine idea! You mean that Paul shall come to Compton Bobbin disguised as my tutor so that he can read up the old girl’s journal without mother knowing. Oh, yes,
it’s there all right, neatly bound in red morocco – it takes up a whole shelf of the library. I rather think there are some bags full of letters, too. How marvellous you are to think of it, darling. Oh, what heavenly fun it will be!’ and Bobby vaulted over some fairly low railings and back, casting off for a moment his mask of elderly roué and slipping on that of a tiny-child-at-its-first-pantomine, another role greatly favoured by this unnatural boy. ‘Only it’s too awful to think you won’t be there, joining in the riot.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ said Amabelle darkly.

‘You’re not coming too by any chance, disguised as my nanny?’

If Amabelle flinched inwardly at this remark she showed no signs of it and merely said, ‘But why the disguise? As a matter of fact though I shall be in your neighbourhood then, because I’ve taken a little house for Christmas time which can’t be very far from you – Mulberrie Farm.’